


A Dead Man in the Family

by Ellis_Hendricks



Series: A Dead Man in the Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boltholes, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, F/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Sherlock jumps from the roof of Bart's - the plan is perfectly executed. Except that Mycroft is troubled by the inclusion of Molly Hooper in that plan. As his brother prepares to be dead for two years, Mycroft begins to realise that there's a threat to the operation that he hadn't considered - sentiment.Takes place after TRF, eventually becoming a post-TFP story too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geekmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/gifts).



> The whole of this fic has been read and brilliantly beta-ed by geekmama over the past couple of months. Any remaining gaffes are entirely my own. Happy to say that the fic is already finished, and will be posting new chapters over the next few weeks.

Mycroft glanced at the screen of his phone, then briefly to the live video footage of his brother up on the ledge. There were eyes on every corner of the roof of St Bartholomew’s, but only Sherlock’s word would set the wheels in motion; there could be no assumptions. 

He turned and gave a firm nod to a waiting Anthea; she would do the necessary. Within seconds, that very same message would be lighting up the screens of the twenty-five disposable phones in the hands of Sherlock’s homeless network – and one further phone, somewhere on an upper floor of the hospital, in the lab coat pocket of little brother’s only other ‘accomplice’.

Ordinarily, this would have been the moment to order the erasure of all plans and records relating to an operation, but this wasn’t necessary; every detail, every possible permutation had been mapped out between them verbally and committed to memory. It was like working out every possible play in a chess match before the first piece had even been played; if so much hadn’t been at stake, Mycroft reflected, it would actually have been an enjoyable little diversion. As with chess, where, regardless of the route taken, the endgame was checkmate, it didn’t matter how events played themselves out on the rooftop so long as they ended with Sherlock Holmes falling to his death.

Of course, they had considered the possibility that Moriarty might seek to take Sherlock over the edge with him, to twine them together in death as they had been in life, but Moriarty’s decision to blow his brains out – before he’d even witnessed Sherlock’s ignominious end - was admittedly not something that either of them had foreseen. Bit of a nuisance to have another body on their hands, but still, only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

“Sir, the car is standing by,” Anthea said, her phone poised by her ear.

Mycroft watched the frenzy of activity on the monitors; the nameless corpse in Sherlock’s clothes, the phalanx of ‘bystanders’ creating diversions while the machinery of the stunt was quickly and efficiently cleared from the scene. There was something immensely pleasing about it, something almost theatrical. He had to concede that his early love of the dramatic arts had never truly deserted him.  

Somewhere out of sight, his brother would be stripped of his trademark outer garments, re-dressed in something less conspicuous and held until Mycroft gave the word. With one final glance at the scene of chaos outside the ambulance bay, he nodded again.

“Get him.”

Seconds later, on another monitor, he watched Sherlock being ushered from his hiding place and down the side street where the unremarkable vehicle would be waiting with its engine running. Very soon, the scene in the ambulance bay would clear, too; John Watson taken in one direction to deal with his shock, the decoy whisked away in the other direction on a trolley, his final useful act in the world completed. The first act was nearly over.

It seemed a little unfair that he wasn’t able to take a moment to fully appreciate the seamless majesty of this achievement. He very rarely could. And now, there were other endeavours requiring his attention – endeavours of the wearisome, domestic variety.

“Anthea?”

“Sir?”

His assistant was typing at rapid speed into her phone; she had the remarkable ability to look bored and indifferent while at the same time being fully engaged and ruthlessly efficient.

“I need you to send another car,” he said. “To West Sussex. You – ah - know the address.”

He could definitely detect a hint of amusement as Anthea turned away again and began making the call.

“Immediate dispatch for the Owl and the Pussycat,” Mycroft heard her saying into her phone. In hindsight, perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to allow Anthea such free rein with the codenames.

It was unavoidable, really; this was to be a family affair. Nothing like a little staged suicide and a national security crisis to bring them all together again, Mycroft noted wryly – it was more bearable than the forced jollity of Christmas, at least.

He took out his own phone and began to compose a message.

**No cause for alarm. Everything that you are about to see and hear is false. Remain where you are and do not speak to anyone under any circumstances –  M**

He sent it off to the two numbers, waited a moment, then heaved a sigh. Oh, for heaven's sake, what was he thinking? He was sending vital communications via text message to two people whose mobile phones were basically glorified coasters, who only turned them on when  _they_  wanted to use them. The devices had probably been lying in a dormant state for days, gathering dust on the kitchen island or getting clogged with fluff in cardigan pockets ( _reminder: insist that Sherlock shoot you if you ever consider a cardigan an acceptable sartorial choice; offer the same in return_ ).

An eye still on the footage on screen, Mycroft stepped outside the door and into one of the many identical, nondescript corridors in Whitehall. He quickly scrolled the contacts in his phone, and then waited a gratingly long time for a reply at the other end.

“Myc? Oh, thank heavens! What in God’s name is going on?”

He managed to fight the instinct to correct his mother’s truncation of his name.

“Then you got my message?” he asked instead, cautiously.

“What message? No. One minute we’re having a cup of tea and listening to  _Gardeners’ Question Time_ , and the next Joyce Harrington is banging on the front door and telling us to switch on the television. Now what the hell is going on, Mycroft? Is it real? Please don’t tell me Sherlock actually…I couldn’t-”

He was torn between the fear and dread in his mother’s voice, and the irritation that this all could have been avoided.

“As I said in my aforementioned  _text message_ ,” he said pointedly. “Everything is fine – as far as you need concern yourself.”

“What on earth does that mean?” his mother demanded. “And you  _know_  we don’t keep our phones on all the time – it drains the battery.”

Mycroft dug deep into his dwindling reserves of patience.

“Sherlock is fine,” he replied, measuredly. “He is alive and well. You’ve certainly seen him in much worse physical states than he is currently in today. I will explain further in person, but rest assured it is not what it looked like.”

“Well, it looked horrific!” she retorted. “Honestly, Mycroft, if this is something that you and Sherlock have been cooking up together, you might have given us some warning. You know very well that your father is taking blood thinners for his heart, and that I’ve been having those dizzy spells lately.”

“I apologise that I did not include you in the communications plan for a highly-classified security operation,” Mycroft replied. “But it all came up rather last-minute.”

“Sarcasm is not terribly helpful, Myc,” came his father’s voice.

Oh, marvellous – his father had joined them on the extension.

“This is all that Moriarty chap, isn’t it?” his mother said, as though Sherlock was being mildly bullied by a boy in the form above him. “They’re saying on the news that he’s dead, too. Or is he only as dead as Sherlock is dead?”

This phone call was swiftly evolving into something he had very much been hoping to avoid.  

“Is your interfering neighbour still there?” Mycroft sighed.

“Joyce? Yes – she’s in the sitting room eating a scone,” his mother said.

“I see,” Mycroft replied. “An interesting response, considering she’s under the impression that your younger son very recently came to a painful and deeply upsetting end. I suggest you get rid of her as soon as possible – a car will be with you in an hour.”

“A car? Where are we going?” his mother asked, anxiously. “I want to see Sherlock.”

“That will not be possible tonight,” Mycroft told her.

“Why not? If he really is fine, as you say he is, then you’ll let us see him for ourselves.”

For a split second, Mycroft was slightly – peculiarly - stung by the insinuation that he wasn’t trustworthy. But then it would be much more than an insinuation if they knew even half of it; if they had any idea about the remote, off-the-map island to which he was a regular caller and visitor.

“I promise you will see him,” he said in return. “But for Sherlock’s own safety, we can’t afford the risk tonight.”

There was silence for a few moments before his mother came back on the line again.

“Fine,” she said, with a sigh. “As you wish, Mycroft – you always know best after all. At least that’s what you tell us. I suppose we’ll be needing a few things?”

“Enough for a couple of nights,” Mycroft said.

He was aware that Anthea was hovering discreetly by the door, her phone in her hand. He nodded to indicate that he’d seen her and she would have his attention shortly.

“Don’t speak to anyone,” he continued to his parents. “Don’t answer the telephone or the door. The driver will ring you on the landline when he’s approaching the house, and he’ll call me once you arrive in London.”

Again, he heard his mother sigh.

“It’s always so lovely when we come up to see you boys,” she said. “Always so pleasant and relaxing.”

It was beneath him to point out the sarcasm that was now being directed at  _him_  – and besides, if they started down that path they’d still be here this time tomorrow. Instead, he assured his parents that he’d see them when they arrived, and brought the call to a close. Mycroft supposed this was one of the drawbacks of his aversion to fieldwork - Sherlock might get the bruises, but  _he_  had to deal with the admin. The cross he had to bear.

“Update?” Mycroft asked Anthea, as he restored his phone to his pocket.

“He’s been secured,” Anthea replied. “New phone, new clothes – although he’s complaining about his coat.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Where Sherlock was going, he was unlikely to need a thousand-pound designer overcoat; it was arguably of greater use to the slightly flattened corpse currently bearing his name on a toe-tag. Still, Mycroft knew his brother was a creature of habit and routine, and if being reunited with his beloved coat helped to keep him calm and focused on the task ahead, then so be it.  

“Tell him he’ll have it tomorrow,” he said. “And to be a little more gracious, considering the lengths to which I have gone today on his behalf.”

“He said you’d say that,” Anthea replied, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile.

“And?”

“He sent a photo,” she replied, offering the screen of her phone for his perusal.

As he anticipated, Mycroft found himself looking at a close-up of his brother’s middle digit. With the photo was a caption:  **Thanks for the phone – excellent image quality.**

“Charming,” Mycroft replied with a tight smile. “Heartening to see that this little brush with mortality has done little to dampen his spirit.”

“They’re circling the area,” Anthea said. “Your brother gave the driver an address, but because he didn’t recognise it, he wanted to confirm with you first.”

Mycroft gave a single slow nod of acknowledgement. This had been a topic of lively debate between them a couple of hours earlier, and Sherlock had fought his corner fiercely. Despite the numerous secure facilities at Mycroft’s disposal all over London, Sherlock had been adamant about where he would be spending the night in hiding.

“According to Land Registry records, the property is owned by a Dr Molly Hooper,” Anthea continued, her statement adopting the intonation of a question by the time she uttered the unfamiliar name.

“That is correct,” Mycroft replied.

One of Anthea’s other fine qualities was her complete lack of interest in anything beyond the essentials of the job; she was utterly professional, but it helped that she couldn’t care less about any extraneous details that might exist beyond the task at hand. Ordinarily, Mycroft could have told her to deposit Sherlock at the entrance to London Zoo and she wouldn’t have raised an impeccably-sculpted eyebrow – however, he suspected that there was something in his own tone and demeanour this time that was giving her pause.

"So…I'll confirm the destination, then?" she said.

He glanced across one final time at the cameras trained on the hospital; the police cordons were now up, reporters and other prurient onlookers were starting to gather – very soon the deception would become gospel truth, and act two would be underway. But if Mycroft had his way, the act one curtain wouldn’t be coming down in the East London flat of a thirty-three-year old, cat-owning pathologist with ties to his brother that were ambiguous at best.

But, nevertheless, he had given his word.

“Yes, confirm it,” he said, finally. “And put two cars outside the address.”

Whatever little brother was playing at, Mycroft was at least going to ensure there were eyes on him while he was doing it.

  

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fall, Mycroft's familial challenges continue...

He had chosen the least conspicuous, most tucked-away safe-house that he had access to; it deliberately had the look of a short-let holiday apartment, exactly the sort of thing an elderly couple might rent if they were seeing the sights of London and catching up with their adult children. (Or, in this instance, seeing precisely nothing of London while fuming at one of their adult children and worrying incessantly about the other.) The downside to this property was its location; Mycroft’s car had been in gridlocked traffic for more than half an hour.

He revisited the frenzy of familial communications that had formed the backbone of the previous evening. A flurry of emails from Sherlock with links to accounts of his death and Moriarty’s, interrupted by messages from their parents, which swerved between their concern and agitation over Sherlock (‘Can’t we at least just speak to him?’) and their dissatisfaction with their accommodation (‘Could you ask about a teapot, Myc? We’ve brought our own teabags, but we can’t find a pot anywhere!’)

It was clear that his brother was bored, because there had also been an exchange of text messages – fairly lengthy by their standards.

**I need some clothes – SH**

**_You have clothes._ **

**I mean to sleep in - SH**

**_That particular conundrum never troubled you before._ **

Mycroft had immediately questioned whether he should have sent that last one; perhaps he shouldn’t be encouraging his brother to sleep naked in his current whereabouts.

**I am being threatened with a variety of hideous t-shirts – SH**

**_Considering the events of today, I’m sure you’re capable of neutralising that particular threat. And hard as it may be to believe, I do have slightly more pressing matters to attend to._ **

There had been a hiatus while Mycroft liaised with the coroner’s office and took an intelligence briefing from the team tasked with tracking Moriarty’s criminal network in Europe. Finally, when he himself was being driven home, he picked up the conversation again.

**_No reports of you being thrown out into the street. Assume you’re being a good house guest?_ **

**I’m trying. Not convinced I’ll be doing much sleeping - SH**

A spark of concern shot through Mycroft – surely not…?

**_By which you mean…?_ **

**Too much work to do. Plus guest bed ludicrously small – SH**

The detail of the guest bed had been surprisingly reassuring.

**_It isn’t too late to relocate, you know._ **

It had taken a few moments for a reply to come through.

**I’m fine. Just eaten a large bowl of pasta, so can’t actually move anyway - SH**

Mycroft had considered challenging his brother’s assertion that he never ate when he was working, but he conceded that this day was somewhat extraordinary even by Sherlock’s standards. Although the whole thing did sound horribly domestic. Regardless, the conversation had ended there, and Mycroft had found himself side-tracked anyway, first by a call from the Prime Minister’s office and then one from his father, who was unable to find the thermostat at the safe-house.

Seeing as he had been unable to resolve the latter situation to his parents’ satisfaction, it was sure to come up when he finally managed to crawl through traffic to where they were staying.

He took out his phone; it had been more than twelve hours since his brother’s last communique, but there had been no reports from the agents stationed outside Dr Hooper’s flat either, which Mycroft hoped suggested that Sherlock was behaving himself. In every sense of the word.

**_Sleep well?_** he typed.

A response came through almost immediately.

**Yes. Being dead really takes it out of you – SH**

**_I take it you resolved the predicament of the clothes?_ **

**In a way. Apparently, this Women in Science Conference 2010 t-shirt really suits my skin tone – I may keep it – SH**

**_Arguably better to wait until your host vacates the premises before you start stealing from her_ **

There was a short pause, and Mycroft imagined his dishevelled brother scouring the dark web with one hand while hoovering up breakfast cereal with the other.

**Molly isn’t going in today. Compassionate leave - SH**

Mycroft felt his eyebrow rise spontaneously. Before he could compose a response – and as though having witnessed the reflexive eyebrow - Sherlock sent a follow-up text.

**Her supervisor insisted - SH**

All things considered, perhaps this was better. Instead of worrying about an edgy and impatient Sherlock prowling the property alone like a chained Alsatian, Mycroft now only had to contend with some mild concern over exactly what ‘compassionate leave’ might entail. However, if it reached midday and Dr Hooper hadn’t fled the flat in despair - or murdered Sherlock with a well-placed hairpin - Mycroft would consider it a small victory.

Traffic was moving more swiftly now, and Mycroft realised he was relishing this meeting with his parents even less than he thought he was. Their expectations of what would happen next were no doubt wildly at odds with the plans he and Sherlock were now putting in place.

**_En route to see M &D_**, Mycroft typed.  ** _Should I pass on a message?_**

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

**Tell them it’s probably not worth bothering with Christmas presents this year - SH**

_Yes, they would find that extremely comforting_ , Mycroft thought, rolling his eyes.  

When they arrived at the safe-house, Mycroft let himself into the building and up to the second floor flat. As he rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen and living room, his parents were already on their feet in anticipation (or at least his mother was; his father was still in the process of putting down his crossword book and levering himself off the sofa).

“Is he all right?” his mother asked immediately.

“Unless something has occurred within the last ten minutes, then yes,” Mycroft told her. He wasn’t sure how reassuring this was, given that Sherlock could probably ignite an international incident in the time it took to make a pot of tea.

“The way they’re covering it on the news is horrible,” she said, pulling at the ends of her silk scarf. “All this nonsense about Sherlock being shamed into taking his own life; that it’s somehow proof that he’s a fraud. We can hardly bear to watch.”

“Then might I suggest that you don’t?” Mycroft said.

“Well, there’s not a lot else to do here,” his mother retorted, gesturing around her to the admittedly stark surroundings.

“Perhaps we could decamp to yours, Myc?” his father put in. “If it isn’t too much bother.”

“This facility may not look like much, but it is fitted with state-of-the-art security systems,” Mycroft replied. “It’s far more appropriate in the situation.”

“Oh, rubbish! You just don’t want us there,” his mother said, with an angry tut.

Well, there was that. He was very tempted to mention the antique wall hanging that his parents had, on their last visit to his home, decided to use as an extra blanket.

“It’s only temporary,” he told them. “You have my word.”

His father settled himself back down on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him to encourage his wife to sit, too. His mother, Mycroft noticed, did not move.

“So I suppose this Moriarty chap  _is_  actually dead?” his father asked. “I mean, it’s not possible that he’s pulling the same stunt as Sherlock?”

Mycroft managed a tight smile.

“Having seen photographs of the body, I believe that holes in the cranium of that size tend to be rather tricky to recover from.”

His father nodded, wincing slightly at the thought.

“We always worried that Sherlock would end up upsetting the wrong person,” his mother added. “He’s so terribly rude to everyone, and when there’s an opportunity to show off, he just can’t help himself. I hope at the very least this might knock some sense into him.”

His parents, Mycroft realised, were under the impression that the worst was behind them all; at some point in this conversation he would have to break it to them that this was merely the start.

“One can but hope,” Mycroft replied, lips pulled together in a thin smile, repeated use of which had caused his back teeth to start aching. Where Sherlock was going, he was far more likely to have something knocked  _out_  of him.

“So where is Sherlock now?” his father asked. “Is he in one of these…facilities, too?”

 “No, he’s staying with someone,” Mycroft answered briskly, checking his pocket-watch.

 “With who?” came the inevitable question from his mother.

“Just someone he knows,” Mycroft said. “An acquaintance. Someone who was involved in yesterday’s events, as it happens.”

He saw his mother and father exchange looks.

“Someone else was involved?” his mother asked. “Well, who is he? And why does Sherlock trust him to this extent?”

Mycroft took a breath.

“Actually, it’s a she,” he said. “A woman.”

“What woman? Not  _that_  woman?”

Mycroft saw his mother’s face blanch. He could only imagine that his parents must have come across John Watson’s charming little ‘Scandal in Belgravia’ story at some stage (they’d said something to Sherlock once about the tiresome blog being “the only way to find out for sure what you’re getting up to – and that you’re still alive”).

“No,  _that_  woman – as you refer to her – is dead,” Mycroft told his mother. “This one works at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

“A friend of Sherlock’s?” his father asked, with all the incredulity that the question deserved.

“That may be overstating it slightly,” he replied. “But he trusts her; appears to hold her in high regard.”

“Well, what’s her name?”

Oh, good lord – this was like when his mother had wanted to know the name of every single boy he’d made acquaintances with in his first term at boarding school; it was completely pointless, but for some reason it seemed to matter to her.

“Molly Hooper,” he told her. “ _Dr_  Molly Hooper. A pathologist. I believe Sherlock regularly haunts her laboratory and makes a nuisance of himself in her mortuary.”

Another exchange of glances from his parents; he could only think that his mother and father were now mentally drafting the engagement announcement for  _The Times_.  

“But why would this woman – Dr Hooper - help him?” his mother pressed, apparently not tiring of her ceaseless line of questioning. “From what you’ve said – and you haven’t exactly overburdened us with details – it sounds as though there’s a lot at stake for her.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something glib about yesterday being a quiet day at the morgue, but he stopped himself. Instead, he swallowed, clasped his hands behind his back again.

“It seems she cares for him,” he said simply.

He saw his father’s eyebrows rise, and at the same time his mother let out a short laugh.

“Is this the point where we discover grandchildren we knew nothing about?” she said.

“I can assure you it isn’t,” Mycroft replied coolly.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket for the second time in a minute. No doubt Anthea was trying to get hold of him, but he was acutely aware that there were two rather pressing pieces of information that he had not yet been able to impart.

“So when can we meet her?” his mother asked.

It took Mycroft a moment to realise that they hadn’t closed the subject quite as firmly as he thought they had.

“Why would you want to do that?”

At this, his mother rolled her eyes.

“Because I would like to meet the person who would do something like this for Sherlock,” she replied, a slight tartness to her tone. “And to thank her.”

Mycroft wondered whether his mother would apply the same reasoning to the twenty-six members of Sherlock’s homeless network, too – why didn’t he go the whole hog and just ask Anthea to organise drinks and canapes for them all?

“That won’t be possible,” he said instead.

His mother was now wearing a long-suffering look, as though it was actually justified.

“Well, I’m assuming this elaborate scheme of yours will have to involve a fictitious funeral?” she said. “Unless you’re planning to resurrect your brother within the next few days?”

Mycroft’s expression must have been enough to confirm it for her, because before he’d had the chance to respond, she continued.

“In that case, we’ll surely meet this Molly Hooper there?” she reasoned.

Ah yes. They had come to the first of the ‘pressing pieces of information’, although not entirely taking the route that Mycroft had intended.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible either,” he told them. “Principally because neither of you will be going to the funeral.”

At this, they both looked astounded – as though they’d just been told that their cruise of the Norwegian Fjords had been cancelled without warning, or someone had revoked their Theatre Club ‘Silver Matinee’ memberships.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft!” his mother said. “Of course we’ll have to go to the funeral!”

“It would look rather strange if we didn’t, wouldn’t it?” put in his father, his words more a question than a statement.

“Despite this being Sherlock we’re talking about, there will be a lot of genuinely grief-stricken people present,” Mycroft replied. “The press will inevitably be swarming all over it as well, and I’m concerned that you may not be able to…maintain the façade.”

His father raised his eyes skywards; his mother looked affronted.

“Instead, if anyone queries it, we’ll say that you’re both too heartbroken to attend,” he continued. “And that you wish to mourn in private.”

 "And I suppose you’re going to keep us cooped up in here until it’s all over?” his mother asked. “How long are the two of you planning to keep up the charade until the truth is allowed to come out?”

And now to the second ‘pressing piece of information’. Given how well the last one went down – and considering the much longer-term implications of this news – Mycroft rather wished he had something positive to offer them afterwards. He’d have to ask Anthea to send over a hamper from Fortnum’s. Or a bloody teapot at any rate.

He slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite where his father was sitting; the gravity of his expression was enough to suggest to his mother that she should sit too.

“Sherlock…won’t be coming back any time soon,” he said, slowly, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “There is still a great deal of work to be done. While everyone thinks Sherlock is dead, he is in a unique and unprecedented position to dismantle James Moriarty’s network, to rid the world of a virulent and necrotising disease once and for all. It is an opportunity we must seize, and Sherlock is central to its success – there is nobody who understands the workings of Moriarty’s mind better than he does.”

When Mycroft finished speaking, he waited for one of his parents – most likely his mother – to launch at him with a barrage of protests. Instead, they both sat there in silence for a long moment. His mother looked down at her hands, placed side by side on her knees; Mycroft saw his father’s hand move to her shoulder.

“Where…where are you sending him?” his mother asked quietly.

It was clear that they saw this as  _his_  doing, which came with the inference that anything that befell Sherlock as a result would be his responsibility.

"That hasn't yet been determined," Mycroft replied, carefully. "Although even if it was, I couldn't tell you."

His mother closed her eyes for a moment, her lips pulled tightly together. When she opened her eyes again, the stare with which she fixed him made Mycroft flinch slightly. 

"Mycroft Holmes, you look me in the eye and tell me that you aren't knowingly sending your brother to his death - and that we will see him again."

 

 00000000

It hadn't been an easy corner out of which to manoeuvre. Mycroft had, of course, denied the accusation levelled at him, pointing out that it had been about thirty years since anyone had been able to make Sherlock do anything he didn't himself want to do. But as to whether their parents would see their younger son again? He fully intended it, of course, but he wasn't exactly in the business of absolutes. Mycroft got the distinct feeling this hadn't been what his mother wanted to hear. 

On his way back to the office, he texted Anthea about the hamper. Perhaps he should have ordered one for Dr Hooper too - a 'sorry for the inconvenience' sort of gift. Throw in some gourmet cat food (Mycroft had heard somewhere that people liked it when you made a fuss of their ridiculous pets).

Late in the afternoon, with the death certificate supplied by Dr Hooper filed and the coroner's 'report' signed off, it became necessary to make contact with Sherlock again.

**_Funeral arrangements almost in place_ **

Almost immediately, a response arrived.

**I can practically hear your excitement. You've been planning my funeral since you were twelve years old - SH**

**_Eleven, but close enough. Any requests for the music? Or shall I allow M &D to find inspiration in their Best of Broadway album?_ **

**I couldn't care less - I won't be the one having to endure it - SH**

He had a point. And once again it made Mycroft consider his directorial role in the whole affair; two days from now, he would be choreographing a funeral that only he knew was not genuine. Well, not quite only him; he supposed Molly Hooper would be there, although there could be no question of them conversing - she had to appear no more significant than any of the other mourners. 

Mycroft wasn't even convinced that, until two days ago, he could have picked Molly Hooper out of a line-up of lab-coated females - at least not without the hideous Christmas knitwear he vaguely remembered from their first and only other meeting, which took place over Irene Adler's body. Even then, he conceded, he had detected an undertone of  _something_ between Molly Hooper and his brother, some underlying tension - although he'd soon decided he didn't care enough about it to continue that thought.

**_Have you overstayed your welcome yet?_** he asked. 

**Well, I'm still being fed, and I think the cat is getting used to me - SH**

**_Sadly not for much longer. Funeral is the day after tomorrow._ **

There was a short pause, then a response.

**Shame - the sleeping arrangements have just taken a turn for the better - SH**

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the screen of his phone, suspiciously - but he couldn't avoid the jolt of anxiety.

**_You're in the cat basket?_**   he replied, trying to sound off-hand. 

**Molly's room. Very generously proportioned bed - SH**

Mycroft sighed. This was a man who, any time now, was about to embark on an extremely dangerous mission to infiltrate and obliterate an international criminal network - and he was using this valuable preparation time to find ways of making Mycroft uneasy. Or at least that's what he  _hoped_  Sherlock was doing - the alternative didn't bear thinking about. 

**_You'd best tell Dr Hooper about the funeral. I'll text you the details shortly_**.

It was a while before a response came through. In fact, Mycroft had time to take tea with the Home Secretary and receive another status briefing about patterns of activity detected in Moriarty's network by the time his phone vibrated again.

**I need you to promise me something - SH**

Mycroft's eyebrows slowly rose. Apparently, his family hadn't finished making demands on him today.

**Keep an eye on John for me. Mrs Hudson too. I know you might find it difficult to believe, but this will be hard on them - SH**

Mycroft felt a twinge of chagrin. He might not understand his brother's recent habit of becoming 'attached' to other human beings, but he wasn't completely without a heart. 

**_Of course._ **

**Keep the media away from them - SH**

**_Nothing would give me more pleasure._ **

He watched as his brother appeared to be typing a reply, then pause for a few moments before resuming.

**Molly too - SH**

Mycroft frowned. He felt his pocket for cigarettes, before remembering – with a flash of irritation – that he’d left them in the car prior to the meeting with his parents (their mother had a preternatural ability to detect the presence of even an unopened pack). He tapped out a reply to Sherlock.

**_I doubt very much the media will find their way to her door._ **

Another pause.

**I mean keep an eye on her, Mycroft. I've asked a lot of her, and that isn’t going to go away when I do – SH**

Mycroft sat back, looking at the words. At first, he assumed Sherlock was concerned that Dr Hooper might crack under pressure; that she would be unable to withstand the probing questions from her hospital superiors, or continue to live out a lie in the presence of Sherlock's other acquaintances. He was on the verge of replying 'But  _you_  chose to involve her', when he realised that his interpretation of his brother's motives was backwards. Sherlock  _was_  no doubt concerned about Molly's place of work and the degree of secrecy she would be forced to maintain - but his concern was for  _her_ , not for himself. Sherlock didn't doubt that this woman could and would do what he had asked of her - his anxiety was over what it might cost her. 

Slightly unnerved, Mycroft tried to remember when his brother had last expressed genuine concern for another human being (they were probably both still in school uniform at the time). He couldn't help but be intrigued as to what made the singularly unremarkable Dr Molly Hooper so remarkable.

  ** _If that is what you wish._**

Sherlock was clearly waiting on Mycroft's response, as his own arrived in mere seconds.

**Thank you - SH**

Mycroft was starting to think about what 'keeping an eye' on Molly Hooper would mean in real terms; security and surveillance he could provide, but he got the impression that wasn't entirely what Sherlock was getting at. His thoughts were interrupted by another buzz from his phone.

**I hope you're writing a suitably moving eulogy? Be sure to mention how you were always envious of my superior intellect and looks - and let me know if you run out of superlatives - SH**

Mycroft sighed deeply, and cast his phone onto the table. Honestly, the next time his brother tangled with a psychopathic master criminal and was forced to fake his own death, he was perfectly welcome to have his pathologist work out all the bloody details.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's spell as Molly's house-guest is coming to an end, but it can't come soon enough for Mycroft...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for the lovely comments and the kudos - trying to keep up with my replies, but I'll definitely get around to everyone eventually! :-)

 

The next morning, Mycroft perused the day's papers over a breakfast of tea and crumpets; the crumpets were perhaps an indulgence, but it was turning into a particularly trying week. The press were behaving exactly as he expected the press to behave, except on this occasion they were acting, albeit inadvertently, as his agents of propaganda. These people really were the absolute worst, Mycroft reflected; the very same tabloids that had pilloried Sherlock in the weeks before his 'death' were now either hailing him as some sort of figure of noble tragedy, or were publishing sickeningly sycophantic obituaries that painted him as a hero of the people. He particularly disliked the one that finished '...he is survived by his father, mother, and an older brother, Myrick, 58, a civil servant.’ That particular newspaper was going to find it very difficult to obtain press passes in the future. 

He roughly re-folded the offending newspaper and cast it onto the floor by his feet. On the plus side, Anthea had texted to say that Sherlock's passports were ready, along with thirteen different denominations of currency and a pouch full of SIM cards. Mycroft was surprised not to have heard from either his parents or from Sherlock since the previous evening, and initially wondered whether Anthea had taken the initiative to screen his calls. In the end, he sent a message to his parents:

**_Did you receive the additional provisions?_ **

He knew full well that they had, so either they were disgruntled in some way, or they were currently working their way through them. He was about to bite into his second crumpet when he was surprised by his phone ringing. It was his mother. Surely a simple 'yes, thank you' could have sufficed?

"It arrived?" he said, brushing a crumb from his waistcoat.

"Yes, it's all very lovely, thank you," his mother replied. "Teapot's a bit small, but we'll make do. We did worry, though - just for a moment - that the whole thing might have been...you know, an IUD."

Mycroft pulled a face of mild discomfort as he looked at the phone.

"I'm fairly certain you mean an _IED_ ," he told her. "Although it seems rather unlikely that such a thing would be delivered to you in a Fortnum and Mason hamper by a secret service agent who knows the keypad entry code, hm?"

"Yes, well, you never can be too careful," she replied, a frown in her voice. "Certainly where you boys are concerned."

There was a brief rustling sound at the other end of the line before his mother spoke again.

"I'm putting you on the speaker thing, so your father can join in."

_Oh, good lord._

"How's Sherlock?" his father asked, rather louder than required.

"As of twelve hours ago, fine," Mycroft replied. 

"Molly's taking care of him?" his mother asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"One assumes."

"It does make me feel slightly better about this whole horrible affair," she continued. "Knowing that someone is looking after him; that he isn't alone."

Funny, it wasn't having the same effect on Mycroft. In fact, the more he dwelt on it, the more urgent it seemed to get Sherlock on a plane, to cut him loose, to rub his nose in the scent and follow the trail. Generously-proportioned beds, home-made meals and companionship (of either the feminine or feline kind) were unlikely to harden his brother to the task ahead.

"By the way, Myc," his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. "We need to know where the funeral is going to take place. People are starting to ask, and we don't know what to say."

Mycroft felt a mild spasm of alarm course through him.

"Who? What people?" he asked quickly, adding more firmly. "And I thought we agreed that you wouldn't speak to anyone?"

"These aren't just 'people', Mycroft, these are friends, members of our family -  _your_  family," his mother replied. "I'm getting texts and missed calls all over the place, and I've got to tell them  _something_."

Mycroft set his jaw, then took a deep breath.

"I am  _handling_  it," he replied, as gently as possible. "My PA has all of the necessary contact details and everyone will get the information they need in good time. As will you."

"Us?" his mother asked. "But I thought we weren't-"

"They will have their chance to say goodbye, and shortly after, you will too," Mycroft told them.

"We'll see Sherlock?" his mother gasped. "Oh, thank God! Where? When?"

"It will all be arranged," he assured them. "Now I'm afraid I must go. I have to brief the Prime Minister."

 

0000000000

Mycroft assumed that his parents must, by now, have realised that 'briefing the Prime Minister' was barely-concealed code for 'I'm ending this conversation now', but they didn't make a fuss about it on this occasion. It was only in the last few moments of the call that he decided what he  _was_  going to do next; he hadn't expected it to be necessary, he had thought a phone call would suffice, but he found himself in need of something - reassurance, possibly.

The curtains of the flat were still closed, although it was mid-morning by the time the car pulled up outside. One of the necessities of harbouring a dead man, he supposed. He told the driver to park somewhere a little distance from the property, and to wait for his call. As he walked up the short path, Mycroft performed a swift appraisal of the building he was about to enter; modest ground floor flat on a standard Victorian terrace, with its own private entrance (she would have preferred the first floor from a safety perspective, but couldn't resist the small garden), everything well-kept but not showy, a cat-flap set into the traditional four-panelled front door, and a peep-hole set at a lower-than-average height, clearly by the flat's current owner.

When he rang the bell for the first time, he didn't expect an answer. He could picture Sherlock instructing his host what to do, where to go, while he armed himself with a soup ladle or a heavy textbook, or whatever other deadly weapon thirty-three-year old pathologists might have to hand in their cosy East London flats. Sighing, Mycroft took out his phone.

**_It's me._ **

In the complete silence of the flat, he could hear the buzz from Sherlock's phone as his message arrived. A few moments later...

**Wanker - SH**

Another few seconds went by before the door opened, Molly Hooper confirming his identity before unbolting the door and allowing him to slip inside. Mycroft didn’t even have the chance to exchange greetings with her before Sherlock came barrelling into the hallway, dressing gown flapping around him and brandishing a...rolling pin! Damn, he really should have guessed that.

"Sorry, did I interrupt your baking session?" Mycroft asked, mildly.

“Mycroft, what the hell are you doing?” Sherlock barked.

“Good morning, Dr Hooper,” Mycroft said, choosing to ignore the rather pathetic attempt at threatening behaviour coming from the figure to his left.

“Um, hi,” the small woman replied, arms wrapped around her middle, her gaze flicking uncertainly between the two men. There was an undercurrent of  _something_  in her tone – Mycroft had expected diffidence, but this sounded very much like Dr Hooper was mildly irritated with him.

“Why the hell didn’t you give us some warning?” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft felt his eyebrows elevate.

“Why, what were you up to?” he queried.

In response, he received a cold glare from the man with the rolling pin. Mycroft replied with a pointed stare of his own.

“Well, what are you  _doing_  here?” Sherlock snapped. “What’s the point in us communicating via encrypted text message, if you’re just going to come  _sashaying_  up to the door in broad daylight?”

“I’ll, er, I’ll just-” – Molly Hooper gestured awkwardly in the direction of the back of the flat, moving from one foot to the other.

“Don’t worry, Dr Hooper,” Mycroft replied quickly, offering her a diplomatic smile. “I won’t stay long. Sherlock and I need to discuss…logistics.”

“Logistics? What do you mean?” Sherlock replied, equally quickly.

“Everything is in place, brother mine,” Mycroft said, clasping his hands in front of him. “The next act is upon us.”

It lasted a fraction of a second, but Mycroft caught it – that look on his brother’s face that told him this wasn’t expected. He believed he had more time. He saw Sherlock quickly compose himself, the lines of his face hardening, his whole body tensing as he drew himself up.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, tersely. “Won’t you step into my office?”

He swung out a hand to motion towards the living room door, which was partly open. From the reflection in a mirror on the wall, Mycroft could see that the television was playing in there on mute.

“We were, um, we were just going to have some more tea,” Molly said, a comment Mycroft realised was directed at him. “Would you like some?”

This young woman was clearly wary of him, but from what Mycroft could remember of his only previous encounter with Molly Hooper, he was slightly surprised that she hadn’t immediately scuttled into the nearest hole in the skirting board. She was clearly mistress of her own home, he had to grant her that. But she was also, Mycroft knew, making herself scarce in order to make things easier for them.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, with a nod.

He saw her eyes flick briefly to Sherlock before she turned and headed towards the back of the flat, scooping up the cat as it slunk out of the living room, and carrying it with her. Mycroft saw his brother’s eyes follow her down the short hallway before he turned and stalked into the living room with a vague ‘follow me’ gesture.

As soon as they were in there, Sherlock swiftly crossed to the television and switched it off, but not before Mycroft caught a glimpse of what was on the screen – an old BBC costume drama, quite a good one if he recognised it correctly. Hardly his brother’s viewing tastes, though. He saw Sherlock give the cushions on the sofa a seemingly random nudge with his knee, but it was not enough to hide the indentations that exposed the fact that two people had until very recently been sharing the same sofa. Not closely, but sharing it nonetheless.

At the foot of the sofa were a pair of slippers so fluffy that they might have been two angora rabbits at rest – if they weren’t in the most startling shade of pink. Dr Hooper had clearly been sitting with her bare feet tucked underneath her, Mycroft’s arrival not allowing her time put the slippers back on again before answering the door. At the other end of the sofa were Sherlock’s black oxfords, laces arranged precisely.

On the coffee table were two un-matching cups and saucers and a couple of empty plates; mobile phones sat side by side. The only other thing adorning it was a laptop, presumably Molly’s, which Sherlock had clearly abandoned in a hurry when the doorbell was rung. As though reading Mycroft’s mind, Sherlock firmly snapped down the screen, looking up at him with an irritated expression. Was he supposed to feel guilty for interrupting this scene of domesticity?

“I assumed you were working?” Mycroft began, hitching the legs of his suit trousers before taking a seat on the only sensible-looking chair in the room.

“I was trying to,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft gazed pointedly around the room.

“I expected to see that you had redecorated,” he continued. “Made a little collage of evidence on Dr Hooper’s wall.”

“I have, but not in here,” his brother replied flatly. “Spare room.”

Mycroft pursed his lips.

“But I thought you weren’t  _in_  the spare room?” he said, fixing Sherlock with a challenging gaze.

His brother stared him down.

“I’m not,” he replied, his eyebrow slowly arching. “But it’s always best to separate work and pleasure, don’t you think?”

He was bluffing, Mycroft knew it…so why was it irking him so much? It was clear that it was going to be up to him to be the grown up in this situation.

“About that little trip you’re going to make, Sherlock,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “I think we should perhaps discuss your itinerary.”

They were only a few minutes into the discussion when there was a soft knock on the door, and Sherlock’s host came in with a small tray bearing a teapot that was swamped by a brightly-knitted cosy. As she set it down, Mycroft saw that the mug she’d brought with it – evidently for him - bore the slogan ‘Forensic pathologists are the best! Their patients are coolest’. He couldn’t help but think that Dr Hooper had selected this mug especially, something that was only confirmed by the barely concealed mirth on Sherlock’s face. This could possibly be forgiven, though, by the plate beside it that was arranged with dense slices of the most richly-fragranced Jamaican ginger cake, unmistakably home-made.

“It’s good stuff,” Sherlock told him, through the mouthful that he had already crammed into his face. Beneath the uncouth table manners, there was an odd mixture of both authority and pride in his tone.

“There really was no need, Dr Hooper,” Mycroft told Molly. “But the cake does indeed look very good. Now, you have my word that this won’t take very long.”

He saw that she was about to retreat again, when Sherlock set down his plate.

“This is Molly’s home,” he said. “She can stay if she wants to.”

Mycroft sighed inwardly. What was this? If it was Sherlock’s attempt at some sort of chivalry or loyalty, it was deeply misjudged. Even allowing for the fact that Dr Hooper simply didn’t have the necessary security clearance, did his brother really wish for her to hear the details of what the operation might – and in some cases,  _would_  – involve? What Sherlock might be called upon to do? What might be done to him in return? It could all lead to a terribly messy scene, and one for which Mycroft didn’t have the time and his brother certainly didn’t have the skills to successfully navigate.

“I’m going to go and tidy the kitchen,” Molly said, eventually, with a nod. “Sherlock, just…if you need anything, I’ll just be through there.”

Mycroft saw the look that passed between them; then how his brother’s taut and annoyed expression relaxed into something approaching reasonable and accepting. It was starting to make some sort of sense – albeit an unnerving sort. Although they hadn’t discussed it, Sherlock knew as well as he did that Molly Hooper wasn’t necessary to the plan and never had been; he and Mycroft had everything worked out between them, and Mycroft was perfectly able to arrange for the odd death certificate to be falsified and to find a willing party to eject a corpse from a window, if required. It had been a surprise to say the least when Sherlock had called him, telling him that someone else was now involved – he wasn’t  _asking_  him, he had gone ahead without consultation. They had briefly argued about it, but Sherlock had shut him down completely, and anyway, Mycroft could see that the damage was already done – for whatever reason, it was clear that his brother  _wanted_  Molly Hooper to be involved.

And perhaps the moment that had just passed was similar; she couldn’t contribute anything useful to their plans, couldn’t add anything to the conversation - but Sherlock simply wanted Molly Hooper at his side.

He had certainly developed some regrettable habits in the past year or so.

But he was focused now, and Mycroft was cheered by the way his brother rattled through his findings of the last few days, thoughts and theories spilling out like rapid-fire gunshot. Sherlock’s instinct and research, and his own intelligence-gathering, dovetailed perfectly; it all pointed to the same course of action, and confirmed that time was of the essence. The synchronicity seemed worth celebrating – luckily, that excellent ginger cake was still to hand.

“It’s possible we could bring the schedule forward twenty-four hours,” Mycroft said, moving a second slice of cake to his plate; he had been thinking out loud, but now it seemed like the most logical course of action. He could have a plane on the runway by nine o’clock that night. They were ready, and the longer they waited, the greater the risk of discovery, after all.

He saw Sherlock’s tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

“I thought we were waiting until after the funeral,” he said, frowning.

Mycroft wasn’t sure whether this was intended as humour.

“I can’t see a pressing reason for you to be around for your own funeral,” he replied, smiling. “And the quicker we do this, the sooner I can return our parents to their natural habitat, and the sooner I can get back to my other responsibilities. Sadly, this country won’t run itself, and I do have other things to do besides acting as your travel agent and making sure you don’t eat your weight in baked goods.”

“Says the man on his second piece of cake,” his brother retorted in a grumble. “We stick with the original plan: we do it tomorrow.”

“It makes perfect sense, Sherlock,” Mycroft insisted. “You still have nearly five hours, and I hardly think it’s going to take you that long to pack.”

“This isn’t-” Sherlock began, before cutting himself off.

Mycroft observed him, tilting his head to one side as though to say ‘ _well?’_ He badly wanted to see Sherlock finish that thought.

“It isn’t just about me,” his brother finally said, looking down at his hands that hung, clenched, between his knees.

“How nice of you to say so,” Mycroft replied. “And usually, I would agree with you. But on this occasion, I can’t see who else it could possibly be about...”

He was issuing Sherlock a challenge, and he didn’t care if he knew it. In response, Sherlock got to his feet, taking a couple of paces away from Mycroft before turning just far enough to look over his shoulder at him.

“Tomorrow night, Mycroft,” he repeated, getting to his feet. “You have my word that I’ll be ready.”

Mycroft slowly sat back in his seat, watching Sherlock the whole time; the hands stuffed into the dressing gown pockets, the gaze fixed somewhere in the bottom corner of the room. He could scarcely believe they were having this conversation, but here they were; the world’s most dangerous and insidious criminal network was bloodied and punch-drunk, and rather than moving swiftly to deliver the knockout blow, his brother was trying to renegotiate the timetable. But he also knew that it was impossible to force Sherlock into doing something he didn’t want to do – and if you did, he would do his utmost to make your very existence hell (and very probably refuse to put on his clothes in the bargain).

“Very well,” Mycroft said eventually, to his brother’s back. “Tomorrow. And if you want my advice, Sherlock-”

“-not terribly likely-”

“Get some sleep, eat a decent meal, say your goodbyes if you must – and don’t be tempted by…going-away presents. Of any kind. Giving or receiving.”

At this, Sherlock whirled around surprisingly quickly, as though to check Mycroft’s meaning. The second that their eyes met, Sherlock let out a derisive and dismissive snort. But Mycroft couldn’t help but notice that his brother’s famous eloquence and verbosity was eluding him at this moment. Instead, he watched as Sherlock returned to the sofa and flipped up the laptop screen again, immediately engrossing himself in whatever was on the screen (hopefully, it pertained to the operation, and Sherlock wasn’t back on Twitter under an assumed name, arguing with halfwits and conspiracy theorists).

“I’ll see my way out, shall I?” Mycroft said pleasantly, setting down his plate and getting to his feet.

“If you would,” his brother replied, his eyes still fixed on his screen.

Still watching Sherlock, went to pick up his umbrella from where it leant against the wall; as he did so, he saw the living room door open slightly, and the cat strolled into the room. Disregarding him completely, it made a beeline for the sofa, where it hopped up beside Sherlock, who – without even looking up – began to idly stroke the creature’s head. Mycroft gave an inward sigh; little brother was completely oblivious.

“Please pass on my thanks to Dr Hooper,” Mycroft said, poised by the door.

All he got in response was an indistinct and not-altogether-friendly noise, somewhere between a hum and a grunt. But as he took one final look at his brother, face bathed in the blue-ish light of the screen, Mycroft was pleased that he had followed his instincts and come to see Sherlock in person – at least now he knew what he was up against. And he very definitely going to keep in close and regular contact during these last thirty hours.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's departure is imminent, and Mycroft is more determined than ever that distractions and complications be kept to a minimum...

 When he swiped his security pass through the final door and was, at last, back in the inner sanctum of his office, Mycroft felt that he could finally relax his face. For the past three hours, he’d been forcing his facial muscles into expressions of sorrow, stoicism, gratitude and everything else required in order to successfully play the role of grieving brother. As a result, he could now feel a migraine coming on. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes momentarily. If this was acting, perhaps he’d been right to bow out with Lady Bracknell after all.

If all this wasn’t bad enough, he had also been forced to endure hugs, kisses and general unwanted touching from a surprising number of people who felt that bereavement gave them a right to be overly demonstrative. Some of these people he had never before set eyes on, for God’s sake. He’d been as discreet as he could possibly be with the handkerchief, but the more he reflected upon it, the more he wanted to sink into a bath hot enough to remove the top layer of epidermis.

There was a sharp tap on the open door, and Anthea slipped into the room.

“You wanted an update, sir,” she reminded him.

“Hm?” Mycroft replied, feeling slightly preoccupied. “Oh. Yes.”

She had been keeping things ticking over for him, ensuring that there were no last-minute hitches and that everyone would be where they needed to be later that night.

“Your parents have some questions,” Anthea continued, with a slight raise of the eyebrows.

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied, with tight smile. “You, ah, you can brief me shortly. I just need to take care of one or two things first.”

His assistant nodded, then after a pause, added, “I’ll bring you an aspirin.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft told her. “Better make it two, actually.”

He sat down at his desk and reluctantly took out his phone. He had kept his word to Sherlock, and had been in intermittent contact with him during the morning; his brother’s response to this was complete silence, which was only broken once Sherlock knew full well that his funeral was underway. From that point, Mycroft found himself bombarded with inane questions and demands – anything ranging from ‘Who’s catering the wake?’ to ‘I want names of everyone who isn’t crying’ – and eventually he had to switch off his phone altogether, something he hadn’t done since about the year 2001. It was incredibly juvenile and irritating, of course, but that wasn’t the only reason Mycroft had felt the need to shut him off; the truth was, the funeral was a lot more difficult than he thought it would be. Not just the play-acting and the detestable touching, but the sheer number of people who turned up for the service at the crematorium – for a man who considered himself a sociopath, and who could rightly claim the title of ‘rudest man in London’, Sherlock had attracted a surprising swell of mourners. The Met were out in force, and there were a couple of dozen disparate souls who were clearly former clients of his brother - he supposed that having their silly little problems solved by Sherlock must have made more of a difference to their lives than he imagined.

He had also found it far more difficult than he anticipated to converse with those who were most attached to Sherlock; to John Watson, to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and to the landlady, Mrs Hudson. The doctor seemed to be almost catatonic with grief, choosing silence to no doubt prevent some sort of horrible breakdown; at the other end of the spectrum, the landlady seemed to want to ‘share’, offering him a series of anecdotes that made Sherlock sound like some sort of lovable scamp, rather than the mercurial misanthrope who shot holes in her living room wall and hid drugs in her cutlery drawer. Death certainly seemed to smooth people’s rough edges.

Mycroft wasn’t the only one experiencing this, of course; Dr Hooper was there, too, although they kept a discreet distance from each other throughout. There was a brief exchange of words, purely for show, but Mycroft could tell that Molly was in no mood for further theatre. He supposed that some of these people were her ‘friends’, which he could see might cause a little…discomfort. But if people  _would_  insist on cultivating friendships…

He couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock had gone quiet in the past hour, the barrage of asinine texts coming to an abrupt halt – around the time, Mycroft surmised, that Dr Hooper must have been arriving home. It seemed less likely that Sherlock had tired of his amusing little diversion, and more likely that, with the reappearance of his pathologist, the problem of his brother’s boredom had been solved.

The continued radio silence, however, was not reassuring…

**_Congratulations, Sherlock – you are officially deceased._ **

He set his phone down when Anthea handed him two aspirins and set a jug of water and glass down on the desk, keeping half an eye on the screen. He found he had time to request a pot of tea and the latest intelligence reports before a response came through.

**Molly isn’t very happy – SH**

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at the screen.

**_Well, funerals will do that to you - even the bogus ones. Plus, the canap_ ** **_é_ ** **_s were rather disappointing._ **

He thought it best to keep things light; if Sherlock was in a contemplative mood, it would be counter-productive to indulge him. There was another fairly lengthy pause because Mycroft’s phone lit up again.

**I think I might have been insensitive – SH**

Mycroft let out a sigh, big enough that it riffled the papers on his desk. Well, this was a new one: Sherlock being concerned about how his words and actions affect other people. There was some merit in that, he conceded, but really, did he have to discover the power of self-reflection right  _now_?

**_Confirmation, perhaps, that you are not cut out for this?_** he replied.

**For what? – SH**

**_Whatever it is you’ve been attempting to do._ **

Sherlock didn’t respond, and Mycroft started to picture him in the cheerful living room of that little flat, hunched over his phone and projecting all sorts of uncharitable thoughts in his direction. The cat was probably joining in, too.

**_Anyway, your short exile in domesticity is shortly coming to an end._ **

His brother needed reminding that in a few short hours, none of this would remotely matter; that his brain would soon be engaged in something far more profitable and productive.

**I can see some advantages to my current arrangement – SH**

Mycroft felt another spike of alarm, and then rebuked himself for rising to his brother’s bait; Sherlock was going to make this as arduous for him as possible. But still, there was a persistent niggling that wouldn’t go away.

**_I trust you haven’t done anything foolish?_ **

Almost immediately, Sherlock replied.

**No idea what you might be insinuating, but I was talking about the food. I haven’t eaten so well since I left home – SH**

Mycroft rolled his eyes, wearily. But as he stirred his tea and looked out of the window at the London skyline, he was starting to wonder whether he’d been wrong about something. For the past few years, he had thought of Bart’s Hospital as Sherlock’s ‘home away from home’, but while that clinical, utilitarian environment was a world away from his brother’s current surroundings, there was, of course, one crucial factor in common. Sometimes, Mycroft recognised, home had little to do with bricks and mortar.

 

000000000000

Rather than go home, Mycroft decided to have a light dinner in his office; the working day was far from over, and he would go straight from there to the modest commercial airfield where the small prop plane would be waiting on the runaway – no flight plan filed, of course, no passenger manifest.

Cars were ready, the documentation was prepared, and there were clear skies over northern Europe; there really was very little left to do. On a chair at the other side of his office was the small, locked attaché case that he would hand to Sherlock at the airfield; false papers, currency, the SIM cards, and yet another new phone, this one with a tracking device (he hadn’t yet decided whether he would share that detail with his brother). It made Mycroft think about the spy kit that he’d had as a child, probably around the time that Sherlock was born. Most boys would have discarded everything else in favour of the little plastic gun and walkie-talkie, but he had always been more taken by the replica passport, the identity card, the flimsy pretend banknotes – an innate appreciation of all of the careful preparation that goes into making a successful field operative.

And speaking of field operatives, Mycroft realised that Sherlock hadn’t replied to a single one of his texts in the past hour. He wasn’t _too_  concerned, the agents stationed on Dr Hooper’s street having confirmed that his brother was still in the property, but the time was swiftly approaching.

He picked up his phone.

“Don’t tell me,” Sherlock said, when he answered. “You’ve changed your mind. You’re sending me to Mauritius instead.”

“Not with your delicate complexion,” Mycroft replied. “This is simply a friendly reminder that the car will be with you in exactly one hour.”

“You always did have a strange idea of ‘friendly’, Mycroft,” his brother replied. “Probably explains why you never had any friends.”

“Sherlock-”

“I  _know_ , Mycroft,” he replied, more forcefully. “And I told you. I will be ready.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “I will see you at the point of departure.”

There was a pause.

“Be honest – is it worth me packing my swimming trunks?”

Mycroft sighed.

“Not unless you want me to cancel the flight so you can swim the English Channel instead.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied. “I’m going now.”

“One further thing,” Mycroft cut in, before Sherlock had the chance to hang up. He hadn’t been planning to say anything further, but the words were out there now, and it would have felt remiss of him to stay silent. “It’s vital that you make a clean break, Sherlock. They might hurt more in the first instance, but remember that they are also quicker to heal.”

He was bracing himself for Sherlock to fire something back at him, but he didn’t. Was he going to force Mycroft to spell it out? Make this as uncomfortable for both of them as he could?

“What I’m saying is, you must resist the temptation to make any promises,” he elaborated, letting his words trail off, allowing Sherlock to apply his own interpretation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat back, a little too quickly. “What kind of promises do you imagine I might be making?”

His tone told Mycroft all that he needed to know.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” he replied, effecting an enigmatic air. “But with the uncertainty of everything that lies ahead, it would be detrimental to everyone for…words to be exchanged, for…hope to be given.”

The conversation ended fairly abruptly at that point, as perhaps he should have expected. He called Anthea in to bring him up to speed on everything, including communication with his parents, who always needed at least two hours’ warning in order to be ready to leave the house (it was astonishing how many times someone could mislay a pair of glasses and how difficult it apparently was to settle on a choice of scarf). After she’d gone, he scanned through the various texts his mother had sent throughout the day; aside from two that were basically complaints about how she hated texting, there were several enquiries about the funeral – and one further message to which he had yet to reply. He looked at it again.

**We know you’re against it, but we would still like to meet Molly. Perhaps once everything has blown over? Mummy x**

Sometimes he wondered whether he was even truly related to these people. He knew exactly what he wanted to say in response, but he had hesitated earlier on, and he was still hesitating now. Mycroft closed his eyes, pressing a finger and thumb into the corners. There was no doubt in his mind that he would live to regret this.

Opening his eyes again, he slowly reached out a hand to his desk phone and pressed the intercom button.

“Anthea?”

“Sir?”

Mycroft paused, pursing his lips for a moment.

“I need you to dispatch another car to the same address.”

“For the same time?” she asked in response.

“A quarter of an hour later,” he told her. “Nine-fifteen.”

 

000000000

Mycroft ensured that his car would arrive first. He needed to do the final briefing to the two pilots, and to speak to the operations manager at the airfield to ensure that they understood each other. By the time he had descended the metal staircase back to the small hangar, the car carrying his brother was cruising slowly into the building. It was a cold, clear night, and when Sherlock jumped out of the car, his breath was visible in the air. He was carrying a small, brown leather hold-all ( _Italian, expensive – rather a waste, considering_ ), and pulled his coat around him as he walked towards Mycroft.

“Is the Duty Free closed?” he said, sniffing in the cold air. “I rather fancied a Toblerone for the journey.”

“I believe the plane is well-stocked,” Mycroft told him. “Well, there’s a minibar at any rate.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, wrinkling his nose. “Thought you might have done better than that.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and reached into his inside breast pocket, producing the pack of cigarettes he’d taken from his desk drawer. Sherlock was watching him as he took one and lit it, before closing the lid and holding the box out to his brother. Eyes still fixed on him, Sherlock also took out a cigarette, lit it and took a drag before cramming the rest of the pack into his travel bag. They stood side by side for a long moment, curls of smoke drifting pleasingly on the light breeze. It was, Mycroft reflected, one of the few activities they’d always been able to enjoy together without argument or the need to compete (although Sherlock had, of course, once smoked Mycroft’s entire pack at the same time, just to spite him over something or other).

As they stood there, Mycroft glanced sideways at his brother. His rigid expression wasn’t giving anything away, but there was  _something_  behind his eyes, something turning over in his mind. Broaching the subject, however, at such a crucial time, could only lead to places they simply didn’t have the time – or, in Mycroft’s case – inclination, to go.

Lights could be spotted on the runway outside, gliding closer to the hangar.

“Damn. They’re early,” Mycroft said flatly, extinguishing his cigarette and kicking the butt and ash underneath the car.

Sherlock sighed, and continued to smoke. A minute or so later, their parents were being helped out of the car, and making their way at surprising speed towards Sherlock. He rolled his eyes theatrically to Mycroft as their mother hurried over, a look of fond exasperation on her face.

“Oh look at you, smoking again, silly boy!” she said, wafting the air around them dramatically and gesturing for Sherlock to get rid of the offending cigarette.

Mycroft couldn’t help the smile that started to stretch across his face.

“And don’t think I can’t smell it on you, too, Myc,” their mother added, shooting him a look.

It would probably do no good to remind her that he was forty-three years old, and she no longer had the power to ground him, dock his pocket money or force him to help out at parish luncheons.

As soon as Sherlock put out the cigarette - rather unhurriedly – their mother first cupped his face in her hands, and then pulled him into a hug, which he bore with determined stiffness. Their father joined in, too, moving around to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder. Mycroft stepped back, catching his brother’s pained look as he did so; he had little inclination to rescue him – after all, in a matter of hours, Sherlock would be hundreds of miles away, and he would be the one left handling all matters familial.

“You look well, darling,” he heard their mother say to Sherlock. “Healthy. Doesn’t he, dear? Much better than when we last saw him?”

“Mm, yes. Quite,” their father nodded.

She gave Sherlock a smile that Mycroft could only describe as ‘conspiratorial’.

“She obviously takes good care of you,” said their mother quietly, patting Sherlock’s elbow. “Perhaps, when you come back, you should consider making it a permanent arrangement.”

Oh lord. Mycroft had to hand it to his parents – they never gave up hope. But in light of this, he was seriously beginning to regret the decision he had taken in haste back at the office.

“You have five minutes,” he told Sherlock, whom he noticed had not answered their mother, but was instead staring at the ground, his jaw set and his whole body tensed as he endured further fussing.

Mycroft stepped away, and immediately consulted his phone; he wasn’t expecting any further communication, but was gravely afraid that if he lingered any longer, he might be invited to partake in some sort of ‘family hug’. As it happened, he  _had_  received a text from Anthea – the driver of the third car had apparently met with some initial resistance, but was still on schedule. He glanced across the runway, but saw no sign of approaching headlights yet.

He picked up the attaché case from where he’d left it by the car, and walked back to Sherlock and his parents. His mother and father turned, and Mycroft tried to give the impression that he hadn’t seen a certain ‘dewiness’ in both of their countenances.

“I need a word with Sherlock,” he told them.

His parents exchanged a look, his father resting a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“You boys need a moment, of course,” their mother nodded, wholly misinterpreting his meaning, but nevertheless giving them the necessary and desired privacy.

“What is this, colouring books for the flight?” Sherlock said, gesturing to the case.

Mycroft handed over the case, which he knew required no actual explanation. Sherlock regarded it for a moment before tugging his arms out of his coat, folding it once and thrusting the garment out to Mycroft. He looked at Sherlock questioningly.

“I’m coming back, remember?” Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow. It sounded very much like a challenge. “And if I don’t, you can open a museum or something.”

Mycroft slowly took the coat, watching as Sherlock picked up the attaché case.

“I hardly think I need remind you of the gravity and import of this particular operation, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock smirked.

“Nope, but you did it anyway,” he replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the plane on the runway, then turned back to face Mycroft. “See you on the flipside, blud.”

And with that, Sherlock winked and turned on his heel. There was a fleeting glance towards their parents (who seemed to have accepted that there wasn’t going to be a heartfelt farewell), but nothing more, as he strode purposefully out of the hangar and towards the short flight of steps leading up to the plane. Mycroft sighed **.** Flippancy had always been Sherlock’s reaction to an unsettled mind, his attempt to throw up a shield.

He had barely had time to consider this further – was still watching the doors of the aeroplane close – when his parents were by his side. Or rather, in front of him.

“Now you listen to me, Mycroft Holmes,” his mother said, fixing him with a cold stare. “We don’t want to know where Sherlock is or what he’s doing, but we are relying on you to do everything you can – and I mean  _everything_  – to keep your brother safe. The only thing we ask that you tell us is…is if he’s dead.”

Something about his mother’s gaze was suddenly making the skin beneath his shirt collar itch. He resisted the urge to scratch it, to show his discomfort.

“Contrary to what you might think,” he said. “I do care about Sherlock’s welfare.”

He could see that his mother was all set to challenge this when all three of them were distracted by beams of light piercing the darkness of the airfield. The third car was here. Both of his parents looked at him questioningly, and Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or further discomfort at this development - but it was too late now anyway.

“Myc?”

“I believe you requested this meeting,” he told them, as the car came to a halt. He felt their eyes on him as he walked towards the vehicle, waiting while the driver got out and went around to open the back door.

When she stepped out, her eyes were wide, but her expression was guarded, uncertain. If it were anyone else, Mycroft would have deduced that she had dressed in a hurry, thrown together an outfit when the car unexpectedly arrived – but he had realised that this was simply her ‘style’, for want of a more appropriate term.

“Good evening, Dr Hooper,” Mycroft said, stepping back as she nervously adjusted her coat and looked around her.

“W-what’s this about?” she asked, blinking as she squared up to him. “Why did you…is Sherlock all right?”

He was saved from answering this slightly thorny question by his mother suddenly appearing at his elbow.

“Molly…is it?” she asked.

Mycroft saw the pathologist’s eyes flick back to him momentarily, perhaps with some suspicion (Sherlock’s influence, no doubt). Was she imagining that his septuagenarian parents, with their penchant for country tweed and comfortable shoes, were in fact dangerous enemy agents?

“Um, yes, that’s…yes, I’m Molly. Sorry, do I-?”

Mycroft saw the moment that she recognised the admittedly-strong familial resemblance. Her response was to give a short, apologetic laugh.

“Oh! Hi, yes, sorry, I’m-”

“Molly,” his mother smiled. “Yes, we know. We’ve heard.”

His parents could not have been more pleased if three curly-haired children had climbed out of the car after her. Molly Hooper, Mycroft could see, was not what they expected, but perhaps exactly what they had hoped.

It was, however, about all that Mycroft could take. That feeling of unease hadn’t abated. He watched his parents lead Molly Hooper away, and the introductions and conversation continue. He handed Sherlock’s coat to his driver, suddenly wishing that he hadn’t been quite so generous with the cigarettes (for once, his mother would have been too preoccupied to chastise him). He was just checking his pocket-watch again when his father called his name.

“Molly is going to travel back to London with us,” his father said.

“It seems silly for us all to go in separate cars,” his mother added. “It’ll give us a bit longer, too.”

_Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of_ , Mycroft thought, managing to refrain from saying it out loud. Instead…

“As you wish,” he said, forcing a smile. “Dr Hooper, I would like to thank you for your service during the past few days. The British government will gladly compensate you for any inconvenience or expense.”

Molly didn’t immediately respond, but instead stood, frowning at him, apparently trying to fathom his meaning. He had tried to be delicate about it; he knew very well that he couldn’t just hand her fifty pounds in an envelope, as he had with the two-dozen vagrants in Sherlock’s employ. Besides, he wasn’t clear exactly what he’d be paying her for…

“It…it wasn’t a service,” Molly replied eventually, still looking at him curiously. “I wanted to. I didn’t expect…I mean, I don’t want anything in return.”

Mycroft felt perhaps he should have seen that coming. Apparently, so did his parents, as there were now  _three_  faces looking at him with incomprehension and a hint of disapproval. He cleared his throat, then gestured to the car that had arrived carrying Molly, which was closest to the hangar entrance.

“We’re not waiting?” his mother asked, glancing towards the plane.

“I’ll remain behind,” Mycroft replied. “We may be some time waiting for clearance.”

He saw all three of the others look towards the plane - rather pointlessly, given that it was positioned far too far from the hangar for them to see its occupant. With some visible reluctance, they climbed into the car, his father offering a hand first to his mother and then to Molly, apparently taking the latter by surprise (understandable - she was no doubt unaccustomed to Holmes gallantry). Mycroft spoke to the driver about the change of itinerary, then stood back as the car slowly coasted out of the hangar and back into the darkness.

The lights of the vehicle were still in sight when Mycroft felt a buzz from his phone. He reached into his pocket.

**What are you doing? - SH**

Naturally, his brother had been watching every second of what had played out in the hangar; Mycroft was only surprised it had taken him this long to interject. Of course, he hadn’t warned Sherlock that he was going to bring Dr Hooper to the airfield, just as _she_ hadn’t known anything about it until the car arrived at her front door. But he was aware that he didn’t exactly know how to answer Sherlock’s question – perhaps he would be forced to resort to honesty.

**_I’m not entirely sure._ **

A few moments passed before a reply arrived.

**Thank you anyway - SH**

Mycroft gave a short sniff of wry laughter – apparently, gratitude was only forthcoming when he wasn’t even sure his actions had been helpful. He crossed the hangar to his car, where the driver was waiting by the open door, and was just about to step in when his phone sounded another alert.

**Remember what I asked - SH**

It was an ambiguous statement, but Mycroft immediately understood to what Sherlock was referring. 

**Safe. Protected. Above suspicion - SH**

It would be easy to point out that none of this would be necessary if Sherlock had just left Dr Hooper to her tissue samples and homemade ginger cake; emotions always were his downfall, even if he couldn’t see it himself. But given that his brother was about to embark on a potentially deadly assignment of indeterminate length, it seemed a _little_ churlish to try to claim one, last intellectual victory. No less tempting, though.

Mycroft looked across at the small plane as the engines started to roar into life, the propellers grinding and spinning into a blur. If freeing Sherlock from all other distractions and concerns was going to aid this mission, it was a small price to pay. He returned to his phone and typed a response.

**_You have my word._ **

Mycroft watched as the plane started to taxi, and he remained there until it had taken flight, the tail lights turning eastwards in the direction of the coast and then disappearing completely into the blackness. Another act had come to an end; tomorrow he would turn his attention to other things. Although before he could find distraction in a promising little civil war or military coup, he would need to make it clear to his parents that this was a one-off - that they were _not_ to attempt to befriend, adopt, or otherwise become attached to their son’s pathologist. It would only end in tears, and that really _wasn’t_ his area. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back sooner than Mycroft expected, and he doesn't like how it looks...

After days of nothing, of no contact or useful intelligence whatsoever, there had been a sudden eruption of activity – so sudden that he had been unable to get out of attending his current meeting. Not without arousing suspicion at any rate. Of course, the small coterie of individuals in the room with him were well aware of Sherlock’s current assignment – that wasn’t the issue – but with less than four weeks having passed since Mycroft placed his brother on a plane, there was the distinct risk that his handling of the situation might be called into question. Saying ‘ _Yes, but it’s Sherlock – you take over if you think you can do better’_ probably wouldn’t absolve him of blame.

He had been keeping one eye trained on his silenced phone for the past forty minutes – Anthea was under clear instructions to contact him if there was a credible development.

“Not keeping you from something, are we, Mycroft?” Sir Edwin asked with a smile that barely hid its condescension.

“My apologies,” Mycroft replied, hoping that his own smile was equally disingenuous. “A small family matter.”

His colleague gave a dry laugh.

“Hardly narrows it down in your case, does it?”

Again, Mycroft managed to force his features into a tolerant grimace. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that at least Lady Smallwood appeared somewhat more sympathetic.

Five days. Five days since Sherlock had gone ‘off-grid’, in Belgium of all places. Up until that point, the patterns of activity from the tracker in his phone had been consistent with a man pin-balling across the continent in response to new leads, but suddenly it appeared that Sherlock was enjoying a slow sojourn in the Low Countries. After attempts to contact him failed, local field agents had been dispatched to track him down – only to find the phone in the possession of a local homeless man. His story was that the owner of the phone had paid him a hundred euros to ‘carry it around’ for a few days.

Mycroft had barely had time to think of a suitable expletive to direct at his brother before word came from trusted sources that Sherlock was back in London. Then it all started to make infuriating sense. The latest development – one picked up via police scanners – had taken place just minutes before this meeting; a man vaguely matching Sherlock’s description had been involved in a violent altercation a matter of hours ago, near the Tobacco Dock in Wapping. Mycroft had immediately requested security footage from the area, and found himself watching an unkempt figure with curly hair tangling with three unsavoury-looking characters, laying all three out on the pavement before limping and stumbling away from the scene and eventually out of sight of the cameras.

Somewhere in London, Sherlock was tending his wounds – and he had better have a good explanation of the circumstances that led to their acquisition.

Moments before entering the meeting room, Mycroft had given the order for agents to search all of the usual locations; it was now after seven pm, and Sherlock would soon have the cover of darkness on his side.

Sir Edwin was droning on about fiscal estimates again when Mycroft noticed the screen of his phone light up. A message from Anthea.

 **Reports all back. Your input required for next step.**  
  
It didn't sound particularly encouraging, though he assumed that Anthea would have worded her text slightly differently if he was going to be required to recover a body from an East London gutter. Giving his apologies, and turning a blind eye to the inevitable exchange of looks around the table, Mycroft quickly excused himself before any questions could be asked. He was fairly certain that his colleagues could agree on next year's tea-and-biscuits budget without his help, anyway.

Anthea was waiting for him outside his office, along with the agent leading the taskforce. 

"I take it you haven't found him?" Mycroft asked, handing Anthea his briefcase.

"Negative, sir," the agent replied. "We've carried out exhaustive searches of the locations on the list. No sign."

"You've been to Leinster Gardens? Parliament Hill?" Mycroft probed. Sherlock's favoured bolt-holes were constantly changing, but it seemed unlikely that an injured man would travel very far.

 "Yes, sir. The only location remaining is Big Ben."

"They need special authorisation," Anthea clarified.

With a sigh, Mycroft took out his phone again, preparing - not for the first time - to make the call to the Lord Great Chamberlain's office. It was always slightly painful to have to explain that one's little brother was suspected of playing hide-and-seek in one of the nation’s best-loved landmarks. But in the middle of this thought, the realisation hit - and Mycroft’s hand dropped away from his phone. For a moment, he was almost embarrassed. How could he have missed what was now so blindingly obvious?

“Bring everyone back in,” he told the agent. “Anthea is going to give you an address, and you’re going to take two of your best agents with you and meet me there.”

The lead agent nodded his agreement, and was about to take his leave when Mycroft had a further thought.

“Better make it three agents,” he said, over his shoulder. “My brother doesn’t have a strong history of coming quietly.”

 

000000000

Molly Hooper wasn’t answering her phone; the landline had clearly been disconnected at the wall, and her mobile switched off. Mycroft could only think this was at his brother’s urging. There was no sign of occupancy from the front of the property – curtains drawn and lights turned off – but a cursory inspection by one of the agents confirmed that there was a small light visible at the back of the flat.

Aware that his brother could be armed – and still unclear as to what Sherlock was playing at - Mycroft advised the agent to be careful when he approached the front door. It seemed faintly ridiculous to be ringing the doorbell, but there was protocol to be followed. He was hardly surprised when the agent turned and shook his head.

_Oh, Sherlock._

Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily, fingers curling around his umbrella handle. When he opened them again, the lead agent was watching him, waiting.

He sighed.

“Force entry.”

They weren’t in the business of battering rams or reckless use of bodily force; instead, while one agent covered the back of the flat and two covered the front, the latch mechanism was expertly removed in a matter of seconds. There followed an immediate flurry of activity; the agents entered, rooms were swept, and when Mycroft himself finally entered the hallway, he saw that two of the men had their weapons trained on the open door to Molly Hooper’s bedroom. 

“Target located,” one of them said, rather needlessly.

When Mycroft moved past them, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock pointing a gun in his direction. He was shirtless and bloodied, and his other hand clutched his chest. On the floor by his feet was a grimy, blood-streaked t-shirt and a dark hooded sweatshirt. Behind him, to one side of the king-size bed, stood Dr Hooper, dressed in what Mycroft took to be pyjamas, and visibly shaken.

At least it wasn't the kind of  _in flagrante_  that a small part of Mycroft's brain had feared. When Sherlock realised that there was no threat of physical harm, his face broke out into a slightly crazed smile.

"Oh hey, bro."

He tossed the gun (not the one he'd been issued with, Mycroft noticed) onto the bed, and sunk down onto the floral-patterned duvet. It was only then that Mycroft had the opportunity to take in the contents of a medical kit strewn across the bed, and a washcloth on the bedside table next to a bowl of reddish water.

“My apologies for the manner of our entrance, Dr Hooper,” Mycroft said, glancing briefly her way before rounding on the sorry-looking figure close to her. “Sherlock, in case it had somehow escaped your understanding, now is the point at which you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I’m alright, thanks for asking,” Sherlock replied, holding the left side of his chest again.

“Yes, I've seen the footage of your recent little  _contretemps_ ,” Mycroft replied, trying to keep an even tone. “How fortunate that, as usual, the injuries acquired don’t extend to your mouth.”

Even in the corner of his vision, he could see that Dr Hooper’s whole posture had changed; where she initially she had been unnerved, rattled, he now strongly sensed a simmering hostility. Her hands moved restlessly.

“I’m doing your bidding, in case you’ve forgotten,” Sherlock replied, testily. His breathing, Mycroft acknowledged, sounded shallow. His left eyebrow was swollen, a wide gash bisecting the bruise.  

Molly made a move towards his brother, but seemed to stop herself, instead picking up a roll of gauze bandage from the bedcovers by where she was standing, squeezing it in her palm.

“You go missing for days, with no means of contact, and then you resurface in London without warning and I find you –  _here_.”

Mycroft hadn’t intended to spit out that final word in quite that way, but he was beginning to feel his ire build.

“Perhaps you should have told me about the tracking device in my phone,” Sherlock snarled.

“That was a measure taken for  _your_  safety!” Mycroft retorted, causing his brother to stumble to his feet and Dr Hooper to audibly gasp in alarm. “Entrusting it to a vagrant in Antwerp didn’t do you a lot of good tonight, did it?”

“Sherlock-”

Molly was, it seemed, attempting to coax his brother into backing down; Mycroft saw him blink, swallow and then resume his defiant stance.

“I had legitimate leads back in London,” Sherlock replied, his jaw set.

“In which case you should have made contact,” Mycroft pressed.

“You would have said no.”

“There are ways to do these things.”

Sherlock looked up at him from underneath dishevelled, matted curls.

“Mycroft, I know what I’m  _doing_.”

“What you’re  _doing_ ,” Mycroft said, meeting the insolent glare head-on. “Is jeopardising the whole operation, everything we’ve worked for – and your own life, on the evidence of tonight.”

He saw Sherlock slow roll his eyes.

“I’m beginning to think I should have stayed in Belgium,” he drawled. “The chocolate and waffles are pretty good.”

This glib utterance ended in a rattling cough that caused Molly to finally leave her mark and come to his brother’s aid. Firing a look of quite remarkable venom at Mycroft, she moved in front of Sherlock, taking one of his hands in hers and using her other hand on his shoulder to guide him back to a sitting position. A moment later, she was placing a glass of water in his hands, bringing a throw blanket up to wrap around his shoulders. He let her do it, his gaze fixed on Mycroft, but his eyes occasionally watching Molly Hooper’s ministrations.

“When you found yourself needing medical assistance, you should have made contact,” Mycroft reminded him. “There are ways, and you know it. How many people do you think saw you making your way here? I can’t imagine you were very inconspicuous. An unmarked ambulance could have been there within minutes.”

Sherlock set down the glass on his knee.

“Molly is a doctor.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother.

“Yes, of dead people, if I recall.”

He saw Molly bristle, although her back was to him. Mycroft had imagination enough to picture her expression. 

“Weeeell…I was sort of nearly dead,” Sherlock replied. “Thought I  _might_  die.”

Mycroft responded with his most withering look, which he hoped sufficiently conveyed his exasperation. They weren't getting anywhere, and certainly Sherlock didn't seem to be  _going_  anywhere. 

"Dr Hooper, I need to talk to my brother in private," he said, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes again.

But Molly Hooper showed no sign of going anywhere either. She looked at him as though he was suggesting he might drown her cat. 

"Sorry, but I don't think you appreciate how badly hurt he is," she said, her tone uncomprehending. "Sherlock has multiple contusions, a laceration that's possibly going to need stitches, a possible fracture to his eye socket, and I also need to rule out a punctured lung. If you want to talk to him, you're going to have to wait until I'm finished."

After she'd finished speaking, Molly Hooper remained rooted to the spot. Mycroft realised after a beat – and with a flare of incredulity - that  _she_  was expecting  _him_  to leave, and that nothing would move forward until he did. Even Sherlock looked mildly taken aback by this; his brother’s gaze, Mycroft noticed, lingered on his defender for a few seconds before he turned to face him again, offering a look that roughly translated as ‘ _what she said’_.

Mycroft opened his mouth, more out of reflex than anything, but Molly was already at work, tearing open an antiseptic wipe and encouraging Sherlock to tilt his damaged eye socket in her direction. Reluctantly, he withdrew from the room. The door, which he had pulled behind him, fell open again, just a few inches; when Mycroft looked back, still smarting, he saw Molly Hooper standing over his brother, her fingers holding Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead while she carefully cleaned the wound. The pathologist’s expression was one of fixed concentration laced with concern, but when Sherlock said something to her – in a low voice that Mycroft couldn’t hear – he saw her briefly smile in spite of herself. 

It was frankly a relief to be back in the hallway, where he could at least pretend that this wasn't happening. Pretending would be easier, he decided, if there weren't four highly-trained MI5 agents standing there awaiting his order, and so he directed them to return to the car. At the same time, he texted Anthea about sending out a locksmith (it was probably time to consider keeping one on salary). 

Mycroft couldn't help but think that Sherlock would be enjoying making him wait; it would take his mind off the pain of his injuries more than any local anaesthetic. 

Eventually, the bedroom door opened again and Molly emerged first, his brother appearing behind her. Sherlock's face had been cleaned, and the gash above his eye sutured (the stitching was surprisingly neat, considering that it was done by someone more used to practicing their needlecraft on chest cavities). Sherlock had pulled on the filthy hooded sweatshirt, but it hung open, revealing the bandages that tightly wrapped the top of his chest. Mycroft couldn't help but observe that Dr Hooper didn't look any happier.

"He's suffered serious trauma to the chest," she said, swallowing. "But as best as I can tell without an x-ray being taken, his lungs are functioning properly."

"Thank you," Mycroft replied, with an approximation of a gracious nod. "I will take things from here. Sherlock, the car is outside."

He made brief but pointed eye contact with Sherlock before turning and starting towards the door.

"He’ll…he'll need to be properly monitored. He needs to rest."

Mycroft slowly turned again. Molly Hooper, whether she realised it or not, looked very much as though she was forming a barrier between him and his brother. Behind her, Sherlock let out a dry cough, his body leaning heavily against the doorframe.

"Further exertion or trauma could still lead to a pneumothorax," Molly continued, her hands in fists by her sides. "And then he wouldn't be capable of going anywhere for a very long time."

"You needn't worry, Dr Hooper," Mycroft replied. "Sherlock will have access to the finest doctors in their field."

She looked as though she wanted to debate it further, but apparently had the good sense to recognise an argument lost.

"I'm not going with you," Sherlock said. His words, spoken in a hoarse growl, made Dr Hooper turn.

Mycroft exhaled heavily. His brother's dishevelled countenance, his physical frailty, his utter bloody-minded defiance; it was too familiar - although instead of battling the grip of a debilitating drug habit, Sherlock now seemed to be in thrall to something else, even if he wasn't acknowledging it. His injuries were a mere convenience, Mycroft was sure of it.

"Surely we don't have to go through the 'easy way, hard way' routine  _again_ , Sherlock?" Mycroft said, rubbing his temple. "It's embarrassing, and frankly a waste of everyone's time. Now get in the car."

"Nope. Not happening."

"I'm sorry - I'm assuming you've overlooked the fact that there are four government agents in a car outside who are very capable of  _making_ it happen?"

“How about we forget about them, and  _you_  make me, hm?”

“For God’s sake, now you’re just being juvenile-”

_"Stop!"_

The intervention came, of course, from Dr Hooper, and when Mycroft turned to look at her, she seemed surprised that the word had escaped out of her with such vehemence. Sherlock was looking at her, too.

"Can...can we just stop this?" Molly continued, finding a more measured tone. “Please.”

Mycroft had to concede that he had allowed matters to degenerate sharply, and he offered her a conciliatory nod. Even Sherlock, he noticed, looked chastened, which was a not insignificant thing. The effort of arguing his corner had also left him breathless, and in that moment, Mycroft saw a flicker of his true vulnerability.

“I…I know that I don’t fully understand what Sherlock is involved in,” Molly said, addressing Mycroft. “And I know that you probably think you’re doing the right thing, the best thing. But  _this_  isn’t helping. Sherlock came to me as a doctor, and as a doctor I agree that he  _does_  need further examination, including x-rays of his chest and his eye. But he's not in any immediate danger, and I  _don’t_  believe he’s in a fit state to go anywhere tonight. He needs to rest and be monitored and be comfortable. I can update you first thing in the morning, and then you can...make whatever arrangements you need."

At the end of this speech, her gaze flicked briefly to Sherlock, who was looking increasingly hollow-eyed and queasy by the second.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Could you permit me a moment with your patient?" he requested.

Molly gave a wary nod and said, more to Sherlock than to him, "I'll go and make up that ice-pack."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft, dragging a hand across the sandpaper scruff of his jaw.

“So,” he said, coughing again. “Have I won a few hours in the sick bay?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“You’re fortunate that I trust her more than I do you,” he replied. “Although saying that, I’m sure you’ll understand if I leave some light surveillance in place outside the property?”

Sherlock gave a dismissive, apathetic wave in response, and started to head in the direction of the kitchen. He didn’t understand, he simply didn’t comprehend – and the frustration of it was maddening.

“You know you can’t keep doing this,” Mycroft said. His brother stopped, but didn’t turn. “’Popping back’ whenever you feel like it. That was never part of the plan."

“Good for the air miles, though,” came the gruff reply.

“You know perfectly well what I mean: turning up here, playing the wounded hero. It has to stop.”

This time Sherlock turned, and gave a short, incredulous laugh.

“You think I’d do _this_ for… _effect_?” he asked, gesturing to his face.

Mycroft thought it best not to answer that directly.

“Whatever your reasons might be,” he said instead. “You will end up jeopardising Dr Hooper’s safety, not to mention the success of the operation. Don’t make me doubt your motivations, Sherlock.”

At this, Sherlock’s physical demeanour seemed to transform in front of his eyes; suddenly, he was inches from Mycroft’s face, so close that he could see the network of damaged capillaries underneath his skin.

“In case you’ve forgotten, big brother,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I have already delivered you _eight_ of Moriarty’s former associates in the past month, and made a number of others seriously consider their career choices. Here-”

Mycroft felt a piece of paper being shoved into his hand.

“Names, aliases **,** and addresses of the men I had the pleasure of meeting tonight,” Sherlock spat. “I’m sure you can all have a nice chat about my _motivations_ when they’re feeling a bit better.”

Sherlock backed off, giving Mycroft the space to unfold the dog-eared piece of paper; he glanced at it for a moment, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Perhaps Sherlock expected him to feel chastened, remorseful – perhaps, heaven forbid, he even expected an apology – but when all was said and done, they were still standing in Molly Hooper’s hallway and Mycroft had yet to be persuaded as to why.

“A car will be here at seven A.M.,” he said.

His brother didn’t respond; he was watching the cat approaching from the living room. It sauntered straight past Mycroft and started to wind itself through Sherlock’s ankles, nosing around and rubbing its head against the grubby denim. He watched Sherlock scoop up the animal and briefly scratch behind its ears before setting it down on the floor again.

“They’re fickle, you know,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock watched the animal head off in the direction of the kitchen. “They forget. They move on.”

Sherlock brought his eyes up to meet his, and Mycroft saw in that moment that they understood each other, despite the hostility of his brother’s expression.

In the short silence that followed, Molly Hooper appeared at Sherlock’s side holding what he assumed was an ice-pack; it obviously hadn’t taken her this long to wrap a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel, so it was clear that she had kept a diplomatic distance. Mycroft saw his brother offer a lopsided smile of gratitude, and then a look passed between Sherlock and his pathologist as their fingers grazed each other’s over the ice-pack.

 

As he left Molly Hooper’s flat a few moments later, and climbed into the back of the waiting car, Mycroft looked back at the unassuming mid-terrace property. He was more convinced than ever that the ‘clean break’ that he and Sherlock had discussed several weeks earlier wasn’t quite as clean as he’d hoped.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, and Mycroft is plagued by a problem that just won't seem to go away...

The fire crackled in the grate a few feet away, a pot of Earl Grey and a fruit scone sat by his elbow, and if he cared to shift his gaze away from the afternoon edition of  _The Times_ , Mycroft knew he might be mildly charmed by the unseasonal sprinkling of snow drifting past the window. It was something of an indulgence to be here so early in the day, but he had been forced to spend the previous two hours being obsequious to some minor members of the Bahraini royal family, so it was also well-deserved.

He was just starting to think about pouring some tea, satisfied that it would now have reached its optimum temperature, when one of the club’s waiting staff approached with a folded note on a tray. Before he had even opened it, Mycroft could feel that this was going to signal the end of his peace and solitude.

His instinct was entirely correct. He read the words on the paper, then refolded it until it was small enough to shove up someone’s nostril – which, depending on what happened in the next few minutes, might actually have some relevance.

Rising from his chair, he gestured for the young steward to bring his tea and scone, and go with him – a gesture that the steward promptly mistook for Mycroft wanting the items returned to the kitchen, resulting in a brief but ridiculous pantomime of charades between the two of them. Most of the time, there was a lot to be said for the old Diogenes Club statute of complete silence, but on occasion it was extremely impractical.

As he was leaving the room, he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. A communiqué from Anthea.

**He insisted it was important. Sorry.**

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Confirmation of precisely what he suspected; his brother had only been back from the dead for five minutes, and already he was finding his previous form. (The nostril-sized piece of paper was starting to seem more relevant by the second.)

“This way, sir,” said the steward, once they were in the more lenient surroundings of the Stranger’s Room.

The direction was hardly necessary; it would have been extremely hard to miss the six-foot man in an overcoat and scarf pacing restlessly between the chairs. The steward set the tea tray down on one of the low tables, and Sherlock immediately swooped in and grabbed half of the buttered scone.

“Thanks,” he said, around a mouthful of crumbs. “Plans for dinner fell through.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft asked, arranging himself in the more comfortable of the two chairs. “It’s been, what, a whole three hours since we last saw each other?”

Sherlock dropped into the other chair, leaning forward to take the other half of the scone while still chewing the first.

“So, have you come to tell me you’ve caught the terrorists?” Mycroft continued. “Or was it just too lonely at Baker Street?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, frowning. “And do you know who else isn’t lonely? The hat man. I returned his property to him this afternoon.”

“Oh yes – the ‘hat man’,” Mycroft replied with a smile, folding his hands in his lap. “So how did we do?”

“Our deductions?” Sherlock said, sounding a little distracted. “Like I said, he isn’t lonely. Girlfriend, apparently.”

“Mm. Well, no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Mycroft leant forward and poured some tea into his cup (almost certainly stewed by this time). He was still leaning over the table, pouring in the milk, when Sherlock spoke.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Molly Hooper was engaged?”

Mycroft sat back slowly, watching his brother the whole time. He immediately began to suspect that everything Sherlock had said previously was just a preamble, his version of small-talk.

“I wasn’t aware,” he replied. He got the distinct impression that asking Sherlock to pass on his congratulations wouldn’t go down particularly well.

“’Wasn’t aware’?” Sherlock parroted, screwing up his face in disgust. “How could you not be aware? I left you with very clear instructions for the time I was away, Mycroft.”

“Yeess,” Mycroft replied slowly, settling his cup of tea in his lap. “’Safe, protected, above suspicion’ – those, I believe, were your instructions, Sherlock, and they were carried out to the letter. I didn’t fully appreciate that you _also_ expected me to intervene in Dr Hooper’s…romantic pursuits.”

Even speaking those words out loud made Mycroft feel as though he’d dropped several IQ points.

“But how could you  _not know_?” Sherlock insisted. “You would have had surveillance.”

“Yes, and the team involved would have observed and carried out checks on any individual paying regular visits to her home,” Mycroft said, taking a sip of tea (it  _was_  stewed - damn). “I can only assume that the gentleman in question – Dr Hooper’s  _beau_  – must have passed the checks; therefore, there would have been no reason for me to get involved.”

He watched his brother, whose long fingers were working away, agitatedly, at a loose thread on the arm of his chair.

“But if I  _had_  known,” Mycroft continued, as their eyes met. “Why would it have been significant?”

“It wouldn’t,” Sherlock snapped back.

Another scone had appeared on the table (apparently, one  _could_  get the staff), and Mycroft set down his cup and picked up the plate so he could start buttering his scone.

“I see,” he said. “So you haven’t come here to ask me to make the nasty man go away?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft,” his brother retorted.

There was silence for a while, but it wasn’t a peaceable one; out of the corner of Mycroft’s eye, while he was trying to enjoy the rather excellent scone, he could see Sherlock’s knee bouncing with nervous energy, his fingertips drumming on the armrest.

“I…I actually didn’t go alone to see the hat man,” Sherlock said eventually, suddenly switching to a tone of casual insouciance.

“Oh? Has Dr Watson overcome his violent loathing for you already?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, pursing his lips. “I took Molly with me. For the whole day actually; several investigations. I find I work better if I have a sounding-board.”

It had been a while since Mycroft had felt his eyebrow rise so quickly.

“Ah yes,” he said, working a strawberry seed out from between his teeth. “That would explain the aftershave that you  _weren’t_  wearing when I saw you earlier today. Vitally important to smell alluring for one’s ‘sounding-board’.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. “It was actually a very satisfactory series of cases; just what I needed to get back in to the swing of things. And Molly acquitted herself very well – she has a useful set of skills that complement my own. Although, obviously, just a one-off.”

“Oh?” Mycroft said. “Is there a reason it couldn’t continue? It’s a professional arrangement, after all, one friend helping out another.”

He heard Sherlock clear his throat, his eyes fixed on his knees.

“I’m led to believe that ‘the fiancé’ might not like it,” he replied, in a clipped tone.

“The jealous sort, is he?” Mycroft asked. He was starting to find this conversation tiresome in the extreme; he’d almost prefer the Bahraini royalty and their shopping list of armaments.

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock replied, waspishly, as though it had been a stupid question. “I know virtually nothing about the man. But isn’t that what  _people_ are like? Get absurdly  _possessive_  over the people they’re attached to?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose again.

“Yes,” he said, languidly. “I can see how that might be possible.”

Sherlock didn’t react at first, but then his eyes shot up, narrowing in annoyance as he cottoned on to the underlying satire of Mycroft’s words. Mycroft smiled pleasantly in return, which had always had the effect of vexing Sherlock further – and in this case, his brother knew that to react in anger would be to protest too much.

“Anyway, it was a productive day’s work,” Sherlock said eventually, springing out of the chair and almost blurting his words. “Some promising leads to follow up, from the hat man, as a matter of fact – CCTV footage from the Underground, District Line, think it might mean something.”

“I do hope so,” Mycroft replied, mildly. “I would hate for your day to have been wasted.”

Sherlock refastened his scarf and retrieved his leather gloves from his coat pockets, looking intently at the oak panelled wall as he did so. Mycroft saw his gaze drift to the floor, then flick sideways in his direction.

“Don’t suppose you fancy some chips?”

Mycroft frowned - not exactly what he’d been expecting to hear.

“Sadly, I must decline, delightful though that sounds,” he told Sherlock. Mycroft couldn’t be sure when he last ate chips of the variety that Sherlock was no doubt proposing; he didn’t suppose the _pommes allumettes_ on the club’s ‘casual dining’ menu bore much resemblance. He also suspected that he wasn’t Sherlock’s first-choice dining companion.

“The world didn’t stand still for the past two years, Sherlock,” he said, watching his brother pull on his gloves. “Is that a shock to you? Your faithful hound has a new master, and your mortuary companion has found someone in the land of the living. I tried to tell you – people move on, it’s what they do. Don’t get involved.”

“Says the man who bought a suit of armour from an auction house just so he would have someone to talk to,” Sherlock shot back. “Thanks for the scone, bruv.”

He started to walk away.

“Oh, by the way,” Mycroft called. “I believe you can expect our parents to descend at some point soon.”

Sherlock stopped and turned slightly.

“Why?” he asked, with a vexed expression.

Mycroft sighed, crossing one leg over the other.

“Apparently, they’ve been ‘worried’ about you, or some such thing,” he said.

Sherlock pulled another face.

“Tell them I’ve got some terrorists to catch,” he replied.

Mycroft didn’t think that would act as a much of a deterrent to their mother, but as he watched Sherlock flip up the collar of his coat and stride towards the lobby, he felt oddly relieved – if it wasn’t for the distraction of terrorist plots, and if it wasn’t for conveniently-positioned fiancés, his brother might have come dangerously close to doing something very stupid.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading so far - lot of love/hate for Mycroft out there! :-)
> 
> Final chapter coming up in a few days...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two brothers meet in the ruins of their family home, and look to the future...

The lights had been visible in the distance for what had seemed like miles, and the sight of them had momentarily brought back memories more than thirty years old, of warm, welcoming lights in the windows before the house had been plunged irrevocably into darkness. But as the car neared its destination, the source of those lights could be seen more clearly; the headlamps of the police cars, the temporary floodlights, the lanterns set up along the old country lane to guide traffic in and out of the site. The unmistakable indicators of a crime scene. That thought, of course, brought back other memories, of the night when the house burned so brightly it could be seen across the entire county.

His head was still pounding, and his cognitive functions still felt clouded and sluggish; he was there against medical advice, of course, but the notion that he should go home and rest was ridiculous. Or the ‘rest’ part was, anyway. He supposed that, in a way, he _was_ home. Musgrave was the place he had thought would always be home, long after he finished boarding school and university, long after he moved away and embarked on a career. After all, that was how the house of your childhood was supposed to feel, wasn’t it?

As he climbed out of the car, he looked across at the ruins. From this same distance, thirty-three years ago, he had stolen one final look, as the ancestral seat of the Holmes family – and everything in it – went up in flames. He could remember quarrels with Sherlock, in the years before, when Mycroft would inform his brother that one day the whole of Musgrave Hall would be his, and that he would turn Sherlock’s bedroom into his office – or perhaps a room for one of his many servants. Sherlock would cry, of course, and go running straight to their mother. And then, one day, their sister set fire to her bedroom and changed the course of history.

Mycroft had returned to Musgrave just once, two days after the fire; his parents’ distress and distractedness had made it easy to sneak away from their neighbour’s house, where they had taken emergency refuge. He’d had a lingering hope that he could recover some of his more precious possessions, but he was only able to recognise his chess set from the brass latch that once held the box shut, and all that remained of his record player was a grotesque lump of coagulated metal and plastic. After that, there was no reason to go back – and he had rebuked a tearful Sherlock when his brother had begged to check on  _his_  own room.

He was on the verge of asking a police officer for assistance when he saw a familiar figure sitting, hunched, on the low, ruined wall that had once edged their mother’s prized garden. Mycroft picked his way through the ankle-high grass that had colonised the grounds, feeling somehow off-balance without his umbrella; Sherlock slowly turned to face him as he approached. On the ground between his feet was a little graveyard of cigarette ends.

“So…how was  _your_  day?” Sherlock said, with a crooked smile.

Mycroft gave a short, wry laugh in response.

“It turned out far better than I came to expect,” he replied. “We are both alive, for one thing.”

When he had awakened in his sister’s locked cell four hours earlier, his first thought had been for Sherlock. On the one hand, he wanted to believe that Eurus would spare her favourite brother, but equally, Mycroft could conceive that she would kill Sherlock and let  _him_  live, just so that he would have to live with the guilt. What he didn’t expect to hear was that there had been no further fatalities, and that Eurus had been contained – and that Sherlock was still to be found at the scene of the final  _denouement_.

“Something interesting for our parents’ Christmas round-robin, anyway,” Sherlock said. "Might even trump that fifty pounds they won on the lottery."

Mycroft carefully sat down on the wall a few feet from his brother (he wasn't really a sitting-casually-on-a-wall type, and wondered whether it was odd to cross one's legs). He noticed, then, that Sherlock’s knuckles were still a mass of dried blood, his injuries as yet untreated.

"I..I trust John is recuperating?" he asked, watching Sherlock gaze at the sad, crumbling carcass of their old home, the past he had been forced to exhume. 

"He went home to his daughter,” Sherlock replied. “She’s his best chance of a full recovery.”

There was a pause, the gap in conversation filled by the crackle of police radios, the hum of the generator powering the lights and the emergency personnel calling to each other as they manoeuvred vehicles into and out of the grounds.

"I was surprised to hear from Detective Inspector Lestrade that you were…still here, after…everything," Mycroft ventured, "I thought you might have travelled back to London with John, that there were…places you might want to be.”

He saw Sherlock close his eyes for a moment, saw him swallow heavily.

“I ascertained that she is safe, but…I-I’m not entirely sure that I would be welcome.”

There was a strange innocence to his tone, a gaucheness that Mycroft found oddly…moving. The car journey from the coast had afforded him a lot of time to reflect, and time after time he returned to the three minutes of hell that was the phone call. Never, not even when he was a child, had Mycroft witnessed such abject fear and terror in his brother’s eyes, in his voice. Gone was the rational, calculating machine, and in its place a flesh-and-blood man faced with losing what he held most dear. Watching it play out, Mycroft had thought he knew what Molly Hooper’s death would mean to his brother, but then he heard Sherlock say the words she demanded of him – and when he heard them, heard the naked, unvarnished truth of them, that was when Mycroft started to feel deathly afraid for him.

It was during that car journey that it dawned on Mycroft how stupid he’d been, how quick to assume. The inscription on a coffin plate was, of course, never a message  _from_  the coffin’s occupant – it was intended  _for_  that person. Effortlessly, Eurus had discovered the secrets of Sherlock’s heart, had known the truth before Mycroft did and, he suspected, even before Sherlock himself.

“You know that she had been trying to contact you?” Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned his head, looking as though he didn’t trust what he was hearing. 

“Yes, more or less from the moment Eurus terminated the call,” Mycroft continued. “And when that didn’t work, she attempted to contact me – and when  _that_  was unsuccessful, she finally persuaded Anthea to take her call. I spoke to her in the car on the way here.”

“You…you spoke to Molly?”

The small note of hope in Sherlock’s voice was tempered by apprehension.

“Yes, briefly.”

Sherlock blinked, visibly girding himself for what might follow.

“Did you…explain?”

Mycroft felt a small smile start to quiver at the corner of his mouth as he recalled the conversation, which, as soon as it had begun, went in a completely unexpected direction.

“I was preparing to do just that,” he replied. “To the best of my ability. But it seemed that Dr Hooper’s primary concern was for your safety – she was worried about you, she…had deduced that all was not well.”

As he had spoken to Molly, and heard a voice that was anxious rather than angry, compassionate rather than bitter, Mycroft had felt all of his well-rehearsed words desert him. Whatever it was that existed between this woman and his brother – and it seemed to defy common labels – it was strong enough to withstand Eurus’ torments, and it had held firm against his own disdain and disparagement. And it persisted, quietly and patiently, even in the face of Sherlock’s self-doubt. A remarkable, humbling thing indeed.

“What did you tell her?” Sherlock asked, swallowing. “Does she understand that I-”

“I didn’t really feel it was my place,” Mycroft said. “And in any case, I think she would prefer your version of events – when you’re ready to give it. Although-” – he glanced across at the wretched-looking figure beside him – “I’m fairly certain that Dr Hooper already knew those words to be true. The surprise was in hearing you say them.”

He watched Sherlock’s face drop to his hands, echoing what Mycroft witnessed immediately after the phone call; when he slowly lifted his head again, it looked almost as though he was in shock, disorientated by the new information that perhaps cast everything in a fresh light.   

“You didn’t lose, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued. “When Eurus devised her game, she greatly underestimated the players.”

He had been, he knew, guilty of the very same thing. There was so much to make amends for that he hardly knew where to start. But if he could get  _this_  right, it would go some way towards atonement.

Sherlock let out a choked laugh, his breath hanging for a moment in the frigid night air. 

 "So, what now?" he asked.

"A car will take you home," Mycroft replied simply.

"I'm not sure that 'home' is structurally sound at the moment," Sherlock replied, with a wry smile.

"Not  _that_  home," Mycroft told him. 

At this, Sherlock shot him a questioning look; he still wasn't allowing himself to give in to hope just yet. 

"She's waiting for you," Mycroft confirmed. 

His brother stared at him, dumbly, the lines that had ravaged his face suddenly falling away. He nodded slowly - perhaps, Mycroft assumed, trying to come to terms with what it might all mean, what the future on the other side of Sherrinford could look like. And judging by the look on his face, the possibilities were both terrifying and incredible.  

“You should come back to London with me,” Sherlock said, once they started to make their way towards the car. “There’s nothing more you can do here tonight...or, well, possibly ever."

They both spontaneously turned to look once more at what remained of their childhood home. It was probably a little premature to ask Sherlock whether he might consider a renovation project in his future – but for the first time in over thirty years, Mycroft felt that he might one day have the opportunity to return to Musgrave Hall in very different circumstances.

0000000000

The drive back to London was mostly passed in silence. There was certainly not a shortage of things that needed to be addressed and discussed - and silence between them was a state almost unheard of - but Mycroft suspected that that they were each trying not to disturb the other's hard-earned peace. 

Occasionally, he would catch Sherlock's expression in the reflection of the window. Already, there was something different; an openness, the absence of any kind of façade. Mycroft had glimpsed this before, of course, on other occasions when the mask had slipped, but the difference now was that apparently, Sherlock didn't  _care_  if he saw it. 

As they neared their destination, Sherlock started to shift in his seat, to fidget with his cuffs, with the seatbelt, with anything to hand. He needed now, Mycroft understood, to banish all fear and insecurity, and to find within him an entirely different kind of courage. The car stopped a short distance from the flat, on a street that - following a brief but intense burst of police activity a few hours earlier - was once again quiet and at rest, without even a shred of police tape to show for it.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, distractedly.

Mycroft lifted his pocket-watch from his waistcoat; beside him, Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on the outside of the property, no doubt caught in that paradox of impatience and apprehension.

“Just after one,” Mycroft replied.

He saw Sherlock swallow.

“Perhaps…perhaps it’s too late.”

He can’t have failed to notice, Mycroft reflected, that the living room light in Molly’s ground floor flat was still on.

“I am fairly certain that it could never be too late, Sherlock,” he replied.

Sherlock’s brow was furrowed, but a smile flickered across his face.

“What about you?” he asked. “You’re not going back to the office now?”

Mycroft felt he detected genuine concern in his brother’s question, and he wondered how long this brotherly amity would last (it would surely bring about a dangerous imbalance in the universe for this to be the new normal?). He thought about what would await him at home; the grandeur, the vastness, the seclusion – all the reasons for which he had bought the house somehow, tonight, held a lot less appeal. Instead, his mind was drawn to the business card he had safely tucked away in his wallet several weeks ago.

“I…I had an offer from a friend a little while ago that I may take up,” he said finally, noting the look of amusement and mild scepticism on his brother’s face.

They were both, he reflected, taking a voyage into the unknown. Mummy would never let them hear the end of it.

Speaking of whom…

“I’ll have to talk to our parents first thing in the morning,” Mycroft said. “Bring them up to London for so that…everything can be brought out into the open.” He saw Sherlock grimace and added, “You needn’t concern yourself with any of it, Sherlock.  The responsibility is wholly mine.”

“Of course I’ll be there,” Sherlock replied, almost before Mycroft had finished speaking. There was a resoluteness in his brother’s demeanour, and Mycroft nodded his thanks.

He then ventured, “I suppose it’s probably too early to be mentioning grandchildren? It might, perhaps, help to smooth the waters.”

Sherlock let out a bark of tired laughter – but there was something in his eyes, a kind of happy incredulity. None of this would have seemed even remotely plausible even twelve hours ago, and yet…

With a last glance out of the window, Sherlock opened the car door and climbed out, fastening the button on his jacket and dragging his fingers through his disordered tangle of curls. Mycroft was reasonably certain that his brother’s appearance wouldn’t have any bearing on the welcome he would shortly receive – plus he suspected that, fairly soon, it might be rendered irrelevant anyway.

“Give Dr Hooper my best,” Mycroft said, leaning across the seat so that he could be heard.

Sherlock glanced back at him.

“Give her yours, too, Sherlock,” he couldn’t help adding.

Sherlock pursed his lips, one eyebrow raised.

“We may both be a little tired for that tonight, but I’m willing to see what happens.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I think you know perfectly well that wasn’t what I meant.”

 He pulled the car door closed, and watched as Sherlock crossed the road and walked up to the front door, pausing for a long moment before reaching up to the knocker. Within a couple of seconds, the door was opened and Molly Hooper’s face was illuminated by the light from her hallway; she was still wearing the striped jumper, her hair still tied back, as though no time had passed. Mycroft could see words being exchanged, his brother’s head bowed slightly, the pathologist looking earnestly up at him as she spoke. Then, her expression softened into a tentative smile; she slowly reached out to take his hand, gently drew him inside, and closed the door. ~~~~

Finally, against all the odds, Sherlock was home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has read, given kudos and left comments on this fic! I hadn't written anything like this before, with Sherlock and Molly's relationship mostly 'off-camera', so it was a bit of an experiment to see whether I could sustain it. 
> 
> I missed having Molly front-and-centre; hopefully her strength and influence filters through, but I'll just have to give her more to do in whatever it is I write next!


End file.
